


Who Needs a Fourth Wall Anyway?

by LizzySledgeHammer



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Take Two, The French Mistake
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-28
Updated: 2014-09-28
Packaged: 2018-02-19 03:10:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2372363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LizzySledgeHammer/pseuds/LizzySledgeHammer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Misha wakes up hungover, Mark sasses the King of Hell via cell phone, Jared is around here somewhere, and Jensen... um... has a concussion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It's almost... Supernatural

**Author's Note:**

> Hi!  
> I wrote this some time ago, and it hasn't been beta-read or anything so please excuse typos, continuity errors, etc...
> 
> I wrote this after seeing the French Mistake, and it turned into a thing... a long thing.  
> It's not yet completed, if you like it I'll gladly write more!
> 
> ~kisses~

The smell of smoke and alcohol was new.

It was hazy at first, his head was throbbing and his stomach turning, he didn’t want to open his eyes for fear of vomiting on the floor beside his temporary bed… which from what he could feel was a thinly cushioned cot. The smoky smell was joined by a musky aroma, like old books and leather, and something herbal too, like lavender drying in the sun. Misha brought a hand over his closed eyes, dimming the light now making its way through his eyelids, damning whatever concoction he’d ingested to get him this hungover.

He peeled his aching eyes open, a particularly irony smell wafting into his nostrils now as he lifted his head. Squinting through the light of the bulb above his head, he felt his muscles throbbing as if he’d received a severe beating, his mouth tasting as if he’d been chewing on rusty nails, his shoulders and back in stinging burning agony.

Wait a minute.

This wasn’t right.

The room smelled like blood and salt, sweat and dust, the thick metal door hung open a tiny bit, and he recognized the poorly lit room he was now in as the panic room.

How had he gotten here? Who in their right mind would let him stumble in and pass out on the set of all things? They were supposed to be filming the following morning, why would they hold up production just to let him sleep it off? He irritably sat up, vowing to find Jared or Jensen, and berate them for letting him drink at all, then put a sound boot in their asses for letting him wander off onto the set and _leave him there overnight_.

Misha was on his feet and hurrying with head spinning towards the basement steps, the wood creaking a fair bit beneath his boots… which was odd. Despite the set looking aged, it was merely for show. The steps were in fact fairly new pine boards, and hardly creaked at all before, but now as he moved on them, caked in dust and cobwebs fell to the floor. Misha’s ascent paused only for a moment, the stale smell of mold and dust wafting into his nostrils as he pushed open the door at the head of the stairs. Instead of leading out of the set and onto the soundstage like he’d expected, instead he found himself in a dusty house, books shoved onto shelves, guns and munitions crammed onto tables.

Well, it was a more _complete_ set than he was used to, he and some of the others must have been touring the new set while smashed, and they left him there… bastards.

      “Yer awake?” The voice was familiar, Misha glanced over to see the older man sitting in the study. He felt a smile split his face, happy to see that he hadn’t been completely forgotten, Jim Beaver had at least stayed with him.

      “Jim…” Misha sighed out with relief, “Man, what happened last night? I don’t remember _anything_.” He got a look of unfiltered annoyance and confusion from the man,

      “Jim? Who the hell is _Jim?_ ” ‘Jim’ fidgeted where he sat behind the desk, and Misha watched in disbelief and the older man rolled out from behind the desk in a beat up wheelchair.“Boy, you gone crazy?”

Well that was…interesting, Misha hadn’t expected Jim Beaver to jump into character for a laugh at his expense, especially now. It wasn’t unheard of, he himself had done so just to get a rise out of Jensen and Jared on many occasions, but he’d always popped out of it after a few seconds.

      “Any other time, this would probably be funny. But seriously man, my head is killing me -”

      “I _ain’t Jim_.” The man said forcefully, “An’ just what in the hell gave you the idea that showin’ up in the middle of the damn night and scarin’ me stiff was _a good idea?!_ ” The volume of his voice made Misha’s head spin, and he groaned, putting his hands over his ears,

      “Oh… oh _god…_ please, not so loud.” His stomach lurched, a hand immediately moved over his mouth, getting an incredulous grunt from the man in the wheelchair.

      “Jesus Christ, Cas, what’s the matter with you?”

      “W-what?” Misha lifted a hand to his mouth, meaning to wipe the spittle from his lips, only to find the man he thought to be Jim wheeling himself closer, “Cas?”

      “An’ what happened to your coat? S’different than your usual getup, ain’t it?” he motioned to Misha’s black button up, his jeans and belt, and the brown leather boots on his feet, “Don’t get me wrong, nice to see you in somethin’ that don’t make you look like a tax accountant –”

      “Jim, this isn’t funny anymore, alright? Just… what happened last night?”

      “ _I ain’t Jim,_ last night you dropped in outta nowhere, not like that’s a new thing for you…” older eyes narrowed, inspecting Misha’s face suspiciously, flicking down to his left hand. He spotted the silver band with ten tiny notches in it, as well as the other slightly bigger ring adorning the finger beside it. “…That ain’t a weddin’ ring on your finger, is it?”

      “Jim, you know it is.” Misha glanced down at the silver thing, “Knock it off, it’s annoying, stop acting like Bobby.” This was answered by an annoyed grunt from the man in front of him,

      “I _am_ Bobby, ya idjit.” Misha shook his head irritably, “You got about three seconds to tell me what’s goin’ on, Cas, ‘fore I sigil your feathered rump to wherever the hell it is you winged pains in the ass go.”

      “I’m _not Castiel_. _Stop it._ ”

      “Yer _what?_ ” he sat there with an intense look of confusion on his face,

      “ _Misha_ , that’s my _name_ , _you know that._ ” He walked towards the desk, Bobby’s desk, which was littered with books and other small tools. He turned to the couch, leaning forwards to peer out the dirty windows behind, his eyes traveling over the trees and shrubs outside, lingering on the car lot.

If this was a set, where were the crews? Producers? Other actors? Lighting equipment? Without warning, Misha strode towards the front door, shooting through the kitchen and past the dirty wooden staircase. The floor creaked loudly beneath him, his boots lightly scuffing the floor at his fast pace.

He’d go outside, end up on the soundstage, and this stupid elaborate prank would end. Jim would hop out of the wheelchair and giggle at him, Jared and Jensen would pop out and tease him, and then Misha would go to his trailer and shower before interrogating everyone about just what had happened the night before. Then he’d call Vicky, which he was anxious to do at that point. His hand met the tarnished and grimy doorknob, and he twisted it gently, pulling the door open, hearing ‘Bobby’ struggling to wheel himself forwards behind him.

Hot summer air met his face, his eyes met a wooden porch, the smell of oil and car exhaust heavy in the air. Misha felt as though he’d been punched in the gut, the tight knot in his stomach making it hard for him to breathe as he took a hesitant and disbelieving step forwards. He nearly stumbled, squinting as his eyes adjusted to the light, heard Bobby shuffle to a stop in the doorway behind him.

      “Where the hell you think you’re goin’?”

Misha, winded, found himself sitting heavily upon one of the wooden steps, tangling his fingers in his hair. His shoulders slumped, head drooping, a gust of wind blew dust and dirt over the porch, and he didn’t move. The sign at the end of the driveway ‘Singer Auto’ was enough to deaden any motivation Misha had.

Bobby’s house had been bits and pieces built on a soundstage, the set wasn’t as intact as this, and the outdoor footage that they used for Singer Auto was in a completely different area. There were no other actors, no cameras, none of the equipment that would normally be there. All there was, was a dusty old house, a junkyard out back, and a wheelchair bound old hunter.

_Hunter…_ of all the weird places Misha should wake up, the place he wanted to be the least was _here_.

In a defeated and quiet voice, he finally spoke.

      “…Nowhere, I guess…”

Bobby’s hand was already resting on the gun in his belt, it had been since the stranger had told him he wasn’t the awkward angel he was accustomed to seeing. The old hunter was inclined to believe him, he noticed the way the man held himself, how he spoke, how light his voice sounded, hell how he _walked_ was different than Cas…

So now he had to wonder just what the hell was going on.

      “…What you say yer name was?” His hand didn’t leave the grip of his 45., eyes glued to the man’s slumped shoulders.

      “Misha.” It was muted, quiet, muffled as his head hung, fingers gripping fistfuls of his hair forcefully.

      “Got a last name?”

      “Collins. Misha Collins.”

      “Well, Misha,” Bobby, cleared his throat, “This is gonna sound strange but… I need you to come inside so I can run some tests. See if yer… normal. Ain’t often someone sees double of the same fella.” There was a faint nod from the man sitting on the steps,

      “…Yeah, I know.”

      “You _know_?” Misha lifted his head, throwing a mournful glance over his shoulder at him,

      “Changelings. I know.” Bobby’s eyebrows quirked as Misha stood, releasing his death grip on his hair, leaving it to stick up every which way. Misha simply walked past him, resuming his slumped shoulder and hung head as he sat on the couch. It was silent apart from Bobby’s movements for a few moments, before he felt a tapping on his shoulder, finding that the man had maneuvered himself beside the couch.

      “Drink this.” It was a silver flask, Misha swallowed hard, hesitating before reaching up, and taking it in hand.

      “…Holy water?” It was a tentative question, the guy looked as though something would jump out and scare him at any minute.

      “The flask is silver plated, figure I’d save ya the trouble of gettin’ cut by a silver knife.” He motioned towards Misha again, “Drink up. Then we can talk this over, yeah?” He didn’t move from his spot beside the couch, watching the stranger take a calming breath before tipping his head back and swallowing down the contents.

No foul tasting sludge. No Jensen or Jared popping out of the walls and laughing at him, thrilled by their elaborate prank. No camera crews, sound guys, directors…

Where in the hell _was he_?

      “You ain’t smokin’ from the eyes or mouth, so I guess you check out.” Bobby’s hand pulled the flask away, “Still, gonna hafta keep an eye on you for a bit.” Misha said nothing, still looking completely shell shocked, Bobby shifted in his seat, “Now, when I found you, you were face down on the floor in the kitchen.” He motioned towards the other room, “Hell, you wouldn’t move or respond or anything, so I had the boys put you downstairs.” Misha’s head lifted at that, looking thoughtful for a few moments, before speaking

      “…Sam and Dean?”

      “First you know about Changelings, now you know about them?” Bobby’s brow furrowed, mouth turning downwards into a frown, “You better start explaining how you know all this stuff.”

      “It shouldn’t be a surprise considering what you do.”

      “Yeah, Changelings ain’t common knowledge, boy.” Bobby groused, Misha shrugged, “How?”

      “You… wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

      “I’ve been huntin’ things that’d make you crap your pants since god knows when. Try me.”

      “I’m an actor on TV show.” He said, not surprised by Bobby’s shrug of indifference,

      “I ain’t seen you before.”

      “That’s because it’s in _my_ world, and in that world your lives are a TV show.” Bobby simply stared, “I play Castiel, but I’m _not_ him.” Bobby snorted loudly,

      “You expect me to believe that? You plop down in my house outta nowhere, holy water don’t affect ya and neither does silver, you look like… like _you_ -”

      “You expect me to believe I’m _here with you_?” Misha snapped, finally seeming to lose his patience, “If I could have been dragged anywhere, anytime, one of the last places I would want to be is smack in the middle of an apocalypse!” Bobby still seemed disbelieving, “Okay… uh… You got possessed, a Demon named Meg tried to get you to kill Dean, but you stabbed yourself to stop it.” Misha hesitated, Bobby’s voice took on a dark tone as he threw him a near threatening gaze.

      “How did you know that?”

      “I know more.” Misha said, “Dean and Sam are vessels for Lucifer and Michael, Cas raised Dean from perdition –”

      “Alright, _alright_ … I get it…”

      “I am an _actor on a TV show. I’m not an angel_ , alright?” Misha’s head still throbbed, “I don’t know how I got here, **_and I just want to get back_**.” It was a few moments before Bobby spoke again, there was still skepticism in his gaze and Misha was afraid that he wouldn’t believe him, lock him up downstairs at gunpoint and leave him there for Dean to deal with.

The thought of Dean interrogating him, knowing of his time in hell, made Misha impatient for a response. Luckily, Bobby gave him one.

      “Until you, er,” Bobby coughed, correcting himself, “ _Cas_ get’s back here then I don’t know what to tell you.” Bobby said, Misha’s head dropped again, “In the meantime, you can make yourself useful.”

      “How’s that?” the actor asked, as Bobby wheeled himself back behind his desk,

      “You can get a couple glasses and some ice,” he pulled open a draw, “Cuz I need a drink.”

      “So… you believe me?” Misha stood, plodding into the kitchen as Bobby pulled a bottle of bourbon from his desk. He knew the place well enough, knew where Jim would have stashed a couple bottles of whiskey, or where Jared hid candy for between takes… he might have looked for them if the older man hadn’t been watching him like a hawk.

      “Not sayin’ that…” Bobby waved a forefinger in Misha’s direction, “Not yet anyway. I gotta make a couple calls and I’d like it if we could share a friendly drink rather than you pacin’ around my house like a pissy princess.”

      “I’m honestly surprised you haven’t shot me yet.”

      “Still might, dunno what the hell you are just yet. All I know is that if you wanted to do some damage to the old cripple, you could’ve taken care of me a while ago.” He threw a suspicious glare at him, “So don’t get comfortable yet, Pretty Boy.” Misha seemed to take him seriously, though it was odd to Bobby to see anxiety upon a face that normally only held a blank stare, bright blue eyes wide with paranoia and disbelief. He watched the younger man busy himself in the kitchen again, glancing around as if hugely confused. “Upper right cabinet.”

      “What?” The response was jumpy, unsure, and Bobby pointed towards the cabinet he had mentioned.

      “The glasses.” He gripped the bottle of bourbon by the neck and waved it towards Misha, who nodded while clearing his throat, pulling the cabinet door open with a soft ‘creak’.

      “…Who’re you going to call?” slim fingers gripped warm glass, instinctively Misha puffed up his cheeks and blew away the small amount of dust that had gathered on them.

      “You plop down in my kitchen in the middle of the night, lookin’ like an Angel of the Lord, you’re immune to silver and holy water, and I need an answer _now_ from someone who can help me handle a threat.” Bobby raised an eyebrow at Misha that said ‘idjit’ loud enough for Misha to feel slightly embarrassed. “Who d’you _think_ I’m gonna call?”

      “Right…”

Misha froze at the low and telltale sound of wind, a low beating of what could have been cloth hanging in a breeze, but he knew instead to be the sound of fluttering feathers and a trenchcoat. There was a strange warmth that coincided with the sound, it was something he didn’t anticipate, but it felt light and somehow… clean, faintly warming his back.

      “Well, speak of the devil.”

      “Bobby.” The gruff voice sounded strange coming out of someone else’s mouth, Misha could almost feel his own mouth working to speak, feel the trenchcoat weighing down on his shoulders. “Is something wrong?”

Misha didn’t have to courage to turn around just yet, instead he stayed silent, staring ahead of him out of the window above the sink. His throat worked to swallow heavily as Bobby made a small noise of acknowledgment.

      “Not sure yet. You tell me.” He’d probably motioned towards the kitchen, towards Misha, who still couldn’t bring himself to turn around and face the angel currently standing behind him. The floor creaked, he could hear polished shoes shuffling on the floor as the angel turned, and paused.

The warmth increased for a moment, Misha was certain he felt a brief sting of hostility, a white hot and nearly painful flash of heat, and his shoulders tensed expecting the worst. But it quickly disappeared, though his skin was now tingling at the presence currently eyeballing him.

Misha dared to glance behind, finding a familiar set of eyes looking him over, more accustomed to seeing this face in the mirror rather than in the middle of a dusty kitchen. The gaze moved up and down his body, Misha’s already unsteady frame was suddenly shivering, eyes averting to the floor, unable to look up from the man’s tied shoes.

      ‘ _He’s real_.’ A shaky breath left him, the distinct smell of ozone and heavy wet air hit him squarely in the nose. The being before him smelled like the air in a thunderstorm, mixed with a certain musky smell, the pace towards him stopped, and as Misha dared to lift his gaze he could feel the strange body heat radiating off the figure standing not a foot from him. If he had doubts about where he was before, they were completely gone now. ‘ _I’m standing next to **an angel**_.’

The angel, already within Misha’s personal bubble, leaned forwards further, examining his face thoroughly.

      “Look at me.” Misha started slightly as hot breath hit his face, and for the first time, their gazes locked together, identical blue eyes traveling over the others face.

      “Uh…”

      “Tell me your name.” the order was gentle, and in a gruff voice that somehow sounded extremely foreign to him. Misha swallowed,

      “Misha Collins.”

      “No it’s not.” Castiel’s eyes didn’t waver, Misha felt a strange ease flooding him, “It’s alright.” A faint touch on his upper right arm, Misha realized that he couldn’t see beyond Castiel’s shoulder, a great black mass blocking his vision. His breath caught in his throat as the pearlescent black feathers ruffled gently in the cool air, the wings folded tightly in upon themselves in the small space.

There was _no way_ ….

_No way **in hell** …_

      ‘ _I can **see them**_.’

      “Tell me your name.” Castiel seemed unaware of Misha’s discovery, and the other man finally sputtered incoherently for a moment before finally taking a breath.

      “Dmitri.” He said, the angel nodded, seemingly satisfied with the answer, and turned back around to look at Bobby,

      “He’s not a shapeshifter.”

      “Huh. Guess yer safe, Pretty Boy.” The old hunter grumbled, “I had him drink holy water from a silver flask, figured he was somethin’ new considering he looks like you.”

      “He’s not from here… that much I can see.”

      “You got any clue how he got here?” Misha had to fight not to reach out and bury his hands into the dark lush feathers in front of him, just to prove to himself that the wings he was now seeing were real. “Says he’s an actor.”

      “Actor?” Castiel’s gaze was fixed on him again, Bobby’s voice coming somewhere behind the mass of black feathers.

      “Says he ‘plays’ you on TV where he comes from.”

The curious blue gaze remained on his face, the head tipped, the eyes squinted, finally catching sight of Misha glancing behind him. He was unsure just what the man was focusing on, but his gaze remained fixed on Misha’s anxious expression,

      “…He’s telling the truth.” The Angel confirmed,

      “Good, at least he ain’t some monster… Any idea how to zap him back to wherever the hell he came from?” Bobby was still fussing with the bottle from his desk, the glasses still resting in Misha’s trembling fingers.

      “No.” Misha felt the dark feathers brush against his face and chest as Castiel turned and walked back towards the study, “We should call Sam and Dean, they may find themselves in a similar situation and we don’t want Dean… overreacting.”

      “The hell you talkin’ about?” Bobby asked, “How do you know-”

      “There is a certain… energy around Dmitri.” Castiel’s fingers suddenly were hovering over Misha’s face, the angel’s eyes suddenly fluttered shut, “It’s part of the reason I came here, I wasn’t sure if it was demonic or angelic. A state of being that… is flaring up.” The eyes opened again, but the hand remained in front of Misha, “I felt it elsewhere, close by, possibly where the boys are.”

      “Came to check up on us, huh?” Bobby shrugged, “Well, he’s harmless enough. I don’t think Dean’ll be too bad about it-”

      “Had Dmitri not been so mild mannered, what would have done when you found he wasn’t me?” Castiel asked, lowering his hand finally,

      “I was keen on shootin’ him at first, if that’s what you mean.” Bobby said smoothly, Misha’s eyes widened further, but he said nothing, merely setting the cups in his hands down on the counter with an annoyed huff.

      “That would have been problematic.” Castiel said flatly, “I don’t recommend shooting anything bearing resemblance to myself or the boys anytime soon.”

      “I’ll give em’ a ring, tell em’ to keep a –” The tell tale sound a phone ringing made the old hunter and newcomer in the kitchen jump, Bobby was quick to answer the cordless phone sitting on his desk, “Hell…” he didn’t even finish the salutation before there was shouting from the phone, he flinched the volume of the voice coming out of it,

      “That must be Dean.” Misha rolled his eyes,

      “He has a distinct… voice.” Castiel shuffled nervously, Bobby barking into phone to drown out the loud exclamations coming from Dean.

      “Dean, calm down!” There was another long string of aggravated shouting on the other end, and Bobby sighed, “Boy, shut yer damn mouth for two seconds and listen to me! Here…” he took a moment to prod a button towards the bottom of the phone, which suddenly erupted into irritated grumbling. He’d hit the ‘speaker’ button, “Alright Dean, now say what you jus’ said again.”

      “ _Areyoufuckingseriou-_ ”

      “’Cept slower and without swearin’… and whatever the hell Sam is doin’, tell him to stop too.”

      “ _We just jumped into a changeling in an alleyway, and you’re telling me to **slow down?!**_ ” Bobby glanced worriedly up towards Castiel, Misha hurrying forwards into the study.

      “Aw shit…” a calloused hand ran down his face, “Whatja do to im’? Where is he now?”

      “ _Currently tied up behind the Impala at gunpoint. And the only reason I stopped to call you_ ,” Dean began to sound more irritated, Misha letting out a noise of worry, “ _Was because he said I should call **Cas**. Where’s Castiel?_ ”

      “Ask him his name.” Bobby said suddenly, Dean snorted, there was a sound in the background, it sounded like hurried speaking, but Misha couldn’t make it out. Bobby glanced at Misha’ worried expression, the younger man folding his arms over his chest and biting his lower lip with anticipation.

      “ _What? You’re seriously gonna have me make small talk with a freak posing as me? I have a clip full of silver bullets ready to take this guy out, is Cas there or not?_ ”

      “ _Ask im’ his goddamn name, boy._ ” Bobby’s tone turned threatening, “And don’t even think about pullin’ that trigger.” Dean sighed loudly into the phone, there was a faint ruffling as he pressed it into his chest, a faint murmur of his deeper voice speaking. There was a beat, and Dean’s annoyed snort was on the line again, “Well?”

      “ _Jensen._ ” Dean grumbled, Bobby glanced to Misha,

      “That sound familiar to you?” The older man asked, Misha quickly nodded,

      “I know him.” He said, “He’s with me, tell him to let him go!” Castiel’s gaze fell on him briefly as Dean let out a low breath into the phone,

      “ _Cas? That you? How in the hell could you possibly know -_ ”

      “Where are you?” Castiel spoke up finally,

      “ _We’re still on the job a couple towns over, out by the orchard–_ ” Misha and Dean let out a startled yelp at the same time, Cas vanishing in a rush of warm air. A few moments later, Misha jumped at the loud thud behind him, whirling around fast enough to make his head throb. He turned around in time to see Jensen double over, heaving up the contents of his stomach onto the kitchen floor. “ _Cas what the hell?!_ ”

Misha didn’t even want to think about what being teleported felt like, and rushed over to Jensen as the taller man’s knees suddenly gave out.

      “Holy mother of… Jesus, Dean, I don’t blame ya for thinkin’ he was a shapeshifter…” Bobby peered at the newcomer warily as Castiel stepped out of the kitchen, leaning forwards upon the desk in the study.

      “ _What the hell is goin’ on Bobby?_ ” Dean’s voice seemed to deepen with annoyance, Misha was certain he heard an exclamation in the background from what could have only been Sam.

      “Look, as soon as I know fer sure, I’ll tell you,” Bobby said shortly, “Mean time, Cas n’ I will hold down the fort while you two finish the job.”

      “ _Now hold on, wait –_ ”

Bobby hung up, placing the phone down on the desk before motioning towards Jensen, whose head was lolling on his shoulders, obviously near unconsciousness. It was quiet for a moment, Bobby pulling off his cap and scratching at his hair lightly while Jensen struggled to get his breath back.

      “Jensen?” Misha gently patted the flushed cheek, causing Jensen to stir, “Jen! C’mon, man, wake up!” Jensen’s head righted itself lazily, there was an obvious split to his lip, his right eye already bruising. Misha eased him onto his feet, letting the nearly limp body use him for support, until he was deposited on the couch.

      “Dean musta got him good.” Bobby was already wheeling himself over, “Looks like he might have a concussion, would explain the vomiting.” Misha immediately glanced up at Castiel,

      “Can you fix this?” The angel’s head tipped at Misha’s question, studying him carefully for a moment, before wordlessly reaching forwards and touching Jensen’s head. A low breath left the angel, Misha’s eyes locking onto Jensen’s face,

Jensen jolted with a yell, knocking Misha backwards as he leapt to his feet, stumbling back into the kitchen,

      “Easy!” green eyes were wide, darting around the room as Misha got to his feet. He could see Jensen’s eyes lock on Castiel, remaining fixed upon the angel as Misha reached him, “Jensen, you’re fine, you’re safe.”

      “What the fu-”

      “I have to find your other friends.” Castiel said suddenly, “With the way things are going now, we can’t have lookalikes wandering around. They could be in danger. The one who plays Sam,” Castiel looked to Misha, seeing as Jensen was too busy staring wide eyed at the Angel of the Lord, “What’s his name?”

      “Jared.”

And with that, Castiel was gone, and Jensen’s erratic breathing seemed to slow ever so slightly as he finally looked to Misha. The smell of vomit had vanished, Misha guess that Castiel had mojoed the mess away for them, and left the floor squeaky clean in that particular spot.

      “What… what the _hell…_ is this –”

      “Yeah.” Misha swallowed, Jensen did too,

      “That was really –” Misha nodded,

      “Yeah.”

      “ _I just got pistol whipped by Dean Winchester?!_ ” Jensen watched Misha nod again before looking towards Bobby, “…Bobby?”

      “S’right.” The old hunter nodded, “Say, Pretty Boy, you ever gonna get me those glasses?”

      “Oh, right…” Misha gripped the glasses again, reaching up to grab a third as Jensen stood frozen in the kitchen, “Jen, come sit.”

      “Uh… okay.” After he had, he tried as hard as he could not to stare at Bobby, keeping his eyes locked on the floor as Misha handed him a glass of bourbon, which he promptly downed in one shot. “How?” was the first word he managed after about five awkward silent minutes.

      “Not sure. Even Castiel wasn’t sure how… _Misha_ got here… the hell kind of name is Misha anyway?”

      “The weird stage name kind.” Misha said, leaning uncaringly against Bobby’s desk, sipping at his drink.

      “So when Cas called you ‘Dmitri’,” Bobby took a swig of bourbon from the bottle, “That your real name?”

      “Yes. But he’s the only one who gets to call me that.”

      “Why?”

      “Because he’s a fucking angel, that’s why.” Misha snorted, and Bobby was shocked into silence at hearing him curse, not used to the sharp retort and language coming from that face. Jensen hadn’t said anything, he still stared at the floor, at least until Misha yanked the bottle away from Bobby and refilled his glass. “You okay Jen?”

      “No.” was the muttered reply, tipping his head back and swallowing the contents of the glass with one gulp.

      “Okay. Me either.”

There was another loud ‘thud’ in the kitchen, coinciding with a loud flurry of flapping wings, and a surprised yelp from Jensen. Misha barely had time to put the bottle back on the desk before Bobby’s hand was at his gun, a small snarl catching his features, but Jensen was already on his feet as Castiel released his hold on the back of his newest companion.

      “Mark?!” the shorter man’s eyes immediately flew to Jensen and Misha, then back to Castiel, then back to Misha, before he paused in his panicking fidgets and swallowed hard. A small grunt of disbelief left him,

      “…Fuck.” It was a lighter tone that Bobby hadn’t heard before, but the accent was the same, and while his expression was one of worry and shock, it was obviously not who had first thought it was. The guy was wearing a Doctor Who t-shirt, jeans, sneakers, and an unzipped hoody instead of a three piece suit for chrissakes, and after a scolding glare from Misha, Bobby finally relented and took his hand from his weapon. Mark made a motion with his hand, motioning between Misha and Castiel, eyes still wide. “Is… is he really –”

      “Yeah. He is.” The confirming nod provoked a small nod from the shorter,

      “Holy shit.” He repeated, “So… is that Dean?”

      “No, Mark, it’s me.” Jensen said in a low voice, “Met Dean though.”

      “Oh.”

      “Jared is still missing.” Castiel said shortly, “I found Mark wandering up a back road in Colorado.”

      “Fuckin’ freezing too.” Mark said irritably, looking back to Cas, “So… uh… thanks? I guess?”

      “You are welcome.” The angel said, before that strange heat filled the room, and the tell tale sound of wings told of his departure. It only took a few seconds before Mark tangled his fingers in his hair,

      “What in the _fuck_ is going on?! _What in the fucking hell happened last night_?!”

      “You don’t remember?” Jensen asked,

      “I don’t think anybody does.” Misha said, “I’m hung over to shit, I don’t know about you two.” He didn’t sound it, at least not to Bobby, though the other two men were bleary eyed and pale, eyes slightly bloodshot.

      “I feel like utter shit.” Mark said, fingers still tangled in his hair, eyes still wide, “All I remember is Jared meeting me outside the restaurant and getting in the car...” Mark released his hair, and like Misha’s it now stuck up at odd angles, “We must have had one hell of a night. But I didn’t even drink!”

      “To lead to this? How bad of a night could we have had?” Jensen groused, “How _stupid_ would we have to be to end up _here_? And just where in the hell is Jared? You ended up in Colorado, how the hell do we know he didn’t end up in… in… I don’t know…”

      “Tibet? Indonesia? Japan?” Misha added,

      “That doesn’t help, Mish.”

      “Sorry. Hopefully somewhere uninhabited and, god willing, with a decent climate.”

      “How is him being alone a good thing?” Mark was looking at Misha as though he’d grown an extra few appendages,

      “He looks like Sam Winchester.” Misha said, “I wouldn’t want him near anywhere populated because he might get recognized.”

      “Pretty Boy has a point.” Bobby said, “He gets found, he’ll be demon scat. He doesn’t have the same training as Sam.”

      “Does he have his cell on him?” Misha asked, Jensen let out a high pitched noise of remembrance, patting his pants pockets for the familiar blocky shape of his cell phone. Mark was quicker though, he had his out in a heartbeat, quickly thumbing through his previous messages to find his most recent text from Jared.

      “He sent out a mass text about… five minutes ago.” Mark bit his lower lip,

      “Shit.” Jensen had found his phone, and had apparently found the message,

      “ ‘Rough night last night. Where are you guys? I woke up face down in the back of the car…’” Mark’s eyes lifted from the screen, “‘Luckily Mark’s here with me, he’s already in costume for shooting, meet us for breakfast.’”

The room was silent, it seemed to get very cold all of a sudden, Mark’s lips still parted out of confusion,

      “Holy shit.” Misha eyes were wide, the three other men in the room already thinking exactly what he was about to say. Dread filled the cold air, Misha’s words seemed muffled in his own ears. “Jared… he’s with _Crowley._ ”

~*~

A message pinged on the cell phone, the name ‘Mark A. Sheppard’ popping onto the screen, along with a picture of the man.

How _interesting_. The man in the small picture on the phone could have been a twin, though he seemed to be more cheerful and… underdressed.

      ‘ _Jared, get away from him, it’s not me!_ ’

Well that was strange. Crowley half expected a phone call rather than a text, to try to convince the unconscious giant now currently stuffed into the trunk that the man he was riding with was, in fact, not his costar but the King of the Crossroads.

Of course Jared had figured that out as soon as Crowley had clocked him with a crowbar, and shoved him into the trunk. Cookie for him. And a credit towards humans too, he wasn’t nearly as annoying as Sam.

Crowley quickly thumbed a message back to Mark,

      ‘ _What’re you talking about? We’re eating breakfast!_ ’ Crowley found the idea of talking to his doppelganger via text vastly entertaining, and a few seconds after the text was sent, the phone pinged again.

      ‘ _I know it’s you Crowley._ ’ Huh. That didn’t take as long as he thought it would. Before he could type out a reply the phone made another ping, ‘ _Where’s Jared?_ ’ Another ping. ‘ _What did you do to him_?’ Another. ‘ _He’s not Sam, he doesn’t know anything about demons or angels._ ’

      ‘ _You’re a fast one. I didn’t expect you to catch on so quickly._ ’ Crowley admitted through text, ‘ _And Moose is currently in my trunk, snoozing_. _Give us a call, love, I want to hear just how alike we are._ ’

      ‘ _I want proof Jared is okay_.’

That one made Crowley smirk, he’d taken a moment to indulge himself and taken a picture of Jared curled up in the trunk. His size was ridiculous in comparison to the tiny space he was currently in, and Crowley had cackled for a good few minutes before taking the picture. He sent the snapshot to his mirror image, and after a minute or so the phone began to ring. Crowley grinned, letting it ring twice before hitting ‘answer’, and putting it on speakerphone.

      “I’d pop on over to see you in person if it weren’t for my busy schedule… _Mark_.”

      “ _What do you want?_ ”

      “Oh so we _do_ sound alike.” There was a laugh in the demon’s voice as he spoke, “I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to talk to you.” He settled back in his seat as the car sped forwards, “You afraid to call little old me? That’s adorable. So…” Crowley inspected his nails idly before returning his gaze to the phone in front of him, “How’d this little fuck up happen? What’d the Winchesters do now that brought you and Moose here?”

      “ _The hell are you asking me for, I don’t know what –_ ”

      “Oh… so you’re not some high powered changeling or Trickster then?” He couldn’t honestly tell through the phone, “Pity. That would have been fun.”

      “ _What’s your point? **Get Jared out of the fucking trunk.**_ ”

      “Oh, I will. Seeing as he’s as useful to me as say… Bobby? I could toss him out anytime, leave him on the side of the road… Except Moose can walk, see, that was a jab at Bobby because he can’t walk -”

      “ _Fine. Hilarious. Get him out._ ”

      “And then what? Your little angel will come and get him? Hmm…” The man he was talking to obviously didn’t have a clue as to who was on the other end of the line, or just what kind of trouble his friend was in, “Now that I think about it… why would I give up the one thing that could get me what I want?”

      “ _Which is **what**?_ ”

      “Why _you_ of course.” There was silence on the other end of the line, “Unless someone else over there a vessel that looks exactly like me.”

      “… _Why me?_ ” He sounded torn, suddenly stressed,

      “Besides a decoy? What if something happens to this body? I could use yours. Or I could keep you around for entertainment.” Crowley shrugged,

      “ _No. You can’t have him_.” This voice definitely _not_ Mark’s, though it was familiar, a deep tone that rumbled with anger.

      “Why, Dean, I was wondering when you were going to chime in.” There was silence again, Crowley’s face contorted in confusion. It had to be Dean, that voice couldn’t belong to anyone else… Unless… “Or… is this Dean’s own little stand in?” There was no answer, Crowley let out a low hum, “So, how many of you are there? One for Sammy, one for Dean, one for me… what about your pet Angel then?”

      “ _Shut up. You can’t have Mark._ ” It was that voice again, Crowley didn’t have a name for him yet.

      “What, your look-alikes aren’t in, are they? Otherwise Dean would be the one calling the shots and not you. You’re out of your depth and you have no idea what to do. _Oh_ , this I _have to **see**_.” Crowley let out a low chuckle, “I tell you what, after my little errand I’ll pop in for a visit.”

      “ _Let Jared out of–_ ”

      “And when I show up, be sure to _not_ paint any demon traps on the floor, otherwise _Jared_ will be ghoul scat.” He put his lips close to the phone, “ _Ta_.”

He hung up but didn’t put the phone down, scrolling through the list of names and photos, putting names to faces. The one who looked like Dean was Jensen, who Jared apparently hung around a lot and the one that looked like their angel pet was called Misha, who didn’t seem to have the same emotional stagnation that the Angel had. In some of the photos they were even dressed as their annoying counterparts, there was even a photo of Mark in one of Crowley’s suits, they and were surrounded by cameras and lights…

So, they were actors. They played the roles of Dean, Sam, Castiel, and Crowley on a show called, and Crowley nearly cackled at this, ‘Supernatural.’

Talk about breaking the fourth wall…

      “It’s not that bad, actually.”

The voice made the King of the Crossroads glance up, surprised as he looked to his left at the figure that had appeared beside him.

      “…What?”

      “The show. It’s actually really good, I’m a _huge_ fan.” She said amicably, her hands folded in her lap, the sweatshirt she was wearing was too big, brown hair falling into her eyes, sneakers squeaking against the floor of the car. He hadn’t even felt her arrive, and after a moment of confusion and her small smile, his brow furrowed with indignation, “Though I did like season five better than six -”

      “Who the hell _are_ you?”

      “Fenrir.” She said, as if that was supposed to mean something, “Oh, you can call me Fen for short, Mr. Crowley.”

      “Right… and, uh, why are you in my car?”

      “Just letting you know that I’m taking Jared now.” She nodded, pushing her glasses further up her nose, rubbing her hands up her thighs, the jeans rasping against her skin, “So… yeah. Gonna grab him and go.”

      “Is that so?” Crowley’s right eyebrow raised at the girl, couldn’t have been more than twenty, pale skin, blue eyes, because he could tell what color they were with how close she was to him. He could also tell that she smelled like sage and amber oil… not a bad combination to be honest, better than sulfur.

      “It is, yeah. Just wanted to be polite and warn you.”

      “Oh really?”

      “Yeah. To be honest I’m doing you a favor.”

      “I’m sorry, but do you know who the hell you’re talking to?”

      “Yep. Hi.”

      “I really don’t think that you do.”

      “You’re Crowley, King of the Crossroads, all that stuff.” The smile remained, “I’m no demon or anything, but word gets around.”

      “So you know I’m going to kill you and string you up in hell should you take him from me.”

      “Actually,” she said, looking apologetic, lips turning in a frown. “No. You’re not. See I’m not going to hell. Or heaven. Or anywhere.”

      “Why’s that?”

      “Cuz I’m not dying.” She shrugged, then smiled again. “I have to get to the boys, tell them what’s going on. Get them breakfast. So…” she saluted him lazily, “ _Adios_.”

And, in a puff of pleasant and sweet smelling smoke, the girl was gone.

Crowley was kicking himself even as he shrieked for the driver to stop the car, booting himself firmly in the behind as he pulled open the trunk and found, like the girl had promised, that Jared was gone. And, left behind, was that wonderful smell.

The car had Enochian sigils painted on the undercarriage, etched in the steel frame, along the inside of the rims, upholstered into the seats, and charms bags to keep back all sorts of pesky sprites and demons were stuffed in every cushion. And yet somehow some… _thing_ had popped in and out, taking his leverage and taking off.

He got even more angry when he realized she’d taken Jared’s phone from him as well, right out of his hand without him realizing.

Crowley, frustrated, put a bullet between his driver’s eyes.


	2. You Were Touched By An Angel. Please Don't Sue.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So if our world doesn't have magic...  
> What happens to people from our world when they go to Sam and Dean's?  
> *Gets popcorn*

The day could not have gone weirder.

Not five minutes after Crowley had hung up on Mark, Jared had slumped onto the couch out of thin air, nearly crushing Misha. After a few loud exclamations and a quick prayer up to Cas by Jensen, the Angel had healed the gash in the side of Jared’s head, and let the man sleep, while Mark and Jensen investigated the mysterious Styrofoam containers now stacked on the kitchen table.

After a quick look, they guessed that someone had gotten breakfast for them, judging by the pancakes, eggs, bacon, and French toast. They refused to even touch it until Castiel walked over, took a bite of a pancake, and informed them through a full mouth that it wasn’t poisoned. They were hungry, there wasn’t enough in the fridge for Misha to work with, and Mark absolutely refused to eat what was in those containers… not that any of them could say they were enthused to eat the mysterious breakfast that had magically appeared. Jensen sheepishly asked Bobby if he could use a car to go into town and get something to eat.

Bobby had made a face so sour that Misha cringed, and wheeled himself out from behind the desk, stating that he wanted to keep an eye on Jensen before ordering Misha to watch Jared and Mark.

      “Cas cleared you, I don’t trust that limey prick with you as far as I can throw ‘im.”

The comment got an indignant ‘Hey!’ from Mark, who was ignored by the grizzled old hunter as he barked orders for Jensen to haul ass out the door. Bobby ordered them to take a case of beer from the fridge and stay outside for a while, seeming overwhelmed and irritated by the whole thing as he rolled himself down the ramp on the porch.

They honestly couldn’t blame him.

Misha had tried to get Castiel alone, take a moment to ask why he, and no one else, could see the enormous black wings sprouting from Castiel’s back. But Castiel had mentioned something about a certain smell that had been present when Jared had returned, and he needed to find out just what had brought Jared to them. And he was gone.

So Misha and Mark stood silently on the porch, watching Bobby’s Chevelle tear up the road with Jensen in the driver’s seat. Knowing and anxious glances were cast between them, worry was palpable in the air, it didn’t help their tensions, and Mark wouldn’t stop pacing.

      “This isn’t good.”

      “You’ve said that three times now, Mark.” His shoes thudded across the porch for the fifteenth time in ten minutes, “ _Sit_. You’re driving me fucking crazy.”

      “If he doesn’t trust us why leave us here alone?”

      “He trusts _me…_ sorta, and Jared is passed out and looks like Sam. You look like Crowley.”

      “It’s the other way round. Crowley looks like _me_ , I’m the guy who plays him.”

      “And in his mind if you are a demon, this house is probably full of Devil’s traps. It’s not like you’ll be able to move freely through the property.”

      “ _But I’m **not** a demon_.”

      “You’re saying that like you need to convince me, just walk through a Devil’s trap when he gets back.” There was a noise behind Misha, he turned to see Mark trying the doorknob of front door, then let out a low growl in the back of his throat and lean his head against the cracked wood, “What?”

      “Old git locked us out. And I gotta pee.”

      “Can you blame him?” Misha tipped the bottle he held back and swallowed, not looking or sounding surprised at all.

      “Guess not… Still doesn’t make sense.” Mark said, sitting heavily beside Misha on the step, rubbing a hand over the stubble on his face, “We could just break the window and get back in if we really wanted to, that’d be messier, why trust us alone?”

      “Of all the things that don’t make sense, that’s the one you have issue with?”

      “At the moment? Yeah. _You_ don’t look like a demon… you’d think he’d have locked me up… Why let us wander around?”

Misha felt their answer was the cloud of dust moving back down the road, he squinted slightly at seeing the dark car rushing closer, and Misha stood,

      “…Because he knew we wouldn’t be alone long.”

The Impala tore up the road and came to a dusty stop in front of the house, the parking was sloppy, rushed. It only took a few seconds for the passenger door, the one facing them, to open, and out stepped the tallest Winchester.

Sam looked a lot taller somehow, for some reason Misha didn’t expect him to be as tall as Jared, but he seemed to have no anger in his face towards them. Sam seemed more curious than angered or cautious, unlike his brother, who glared at the two on the porch with something bordering on loathing. They simply stood there, stared them down, and it was strange for Misha to see familiar faces, but feel unfamiliar people behind them.

      “Cas?” It was Sam who spoke first after about a minute of staring, Misha shook his head, and Sam’s face fell slightly. “Oh.”

      “Uh…” Misha swallowed hard, “He… he was here before, he cleared us with Bobby –”

      “Where’s the other one?” Dean’s eyes were cold, despite the hot air Misha felt a chill shoot down his spine.

      “Who? Jensen?” Misha motioned towards the junkyard, or in its general direction at least, “He went with Bobby into town. He left Jared and Mark here with me.”

      “ _Into town_?” Sam looked completely baffled, “Why would Bobby just go with him into town?”

      “It’s not like he can stop them.” Dean grumbled, “And who’s _Mark_?” At Misha’s motion towards the man behind him, Dean scowled,

      “Uh… yeah, don’t shoot him, he’s not Crowley.” Misha said, quickly stepping between Mark and Dean’s rage filled gaze, and Sam tossed a look back towards his brother,

      “Yeah, Dean, I seriously doubt Crowley watches Doctor Who.” Misha pointed inside the open front door, when Sam looked back towards him,

      “And Jared’s here too.”

      “Jared?” Sam slung a bag over his shoulder, taking a few steps closer towards Misha,

      “He’s the one who looks like you.” Misha stuffed his hands in his pockets at Sam’s dumbfounded expression, “Crowley had him for a while, he just popped up in his car.” At Dean’s sour expression Misha wanted very much to stop talking. “Bobby can probably fill you in –”

      “Yeah, Sammy, you go in and keep an eye on… _Jared_.” Green eyes were locked on Misha, full lips pressed together in a thin line as Sam cast a glance back at his brother,

      “Dean?”

      “I got this Sam. Go inside.” His voice was clipped, tense, and Misha wasn’t looking forward to speaking one on one with the cranky hunter, “And take the dork in with you.”

      “ _Hey_ –” Mark’s complaint was cut off at Misha’s warning glare, Misha felt Sam’s arm brush into him gently as he passed, heard the steps creak beneath his boots as the taller hunter walked inside, Mark following as Sam unlocked the door and shut it behind him.

The silence was ice cold, it nearly stung, Misha cleared his throat and tried to breathe normally when Dean finally broke eye contact and moved along the car, popping the trunk.

      “Do… do you want me to help?” Misha’s words felt soft, like they were too quiet, but maybe that was his pulse pounding in his ears. Dean paused a moment, looking up at Misha almost as if he’d forgotten he was there, before nodding slowly.

      “Sure.” He held out another duffle bag out to Misha, who took it without hesitation, and waited patiently for the man to finish fussing with his equipment. Dean wouldn’t look at him, and Misha began to feel a little stupid for standing there in silence.

      “You haven’t told me to fuck off yet,” Misha said, shielding his eyes from the sunlight above, Dean finally glancing up at him, “So I’m assuming you wanted to talk to me about something.” There was a moment of appraisal, Dean glancing Misha up and down with a calculating gaze, before he nodded.

      “Yeah.”

      “Well?” Misha jumped as Dean slammed the trunk shut,

      “I’m just gonna make this clear…” That sour expression returned to Dean’s face, “I’m not sorry I knocked… _Jensen’s_ block off. I didn’t hesitate then, I won’t now, and if any one of you freaks so much as makes a face I don’t like, _I’ll gank you on the spot_.”

      “Wow, Dean, don’t sugar coat things, say how you feel.” Misha snorted, “And we’re not ‘freaks’, alright? We’re all human, we just got stuck here. Bobby even had me drink holy water, which tasted remarkably like _ass_ by the way-”

      “I don’t know what the hell you are, but you are _not_ human.”

      “How many more tests do you need?!” Misha asked angrily, “And, by the way, **_fuck_** _you._ ” Dean’s eyes widened, “Jensen didn’t deserve a concussion, especially since the guy wouldn’t hurt a fly! You wanna gank one of us? _Fine,_ ” Misha snarled, “But if you do, you’d be killing an innocent human being.”

      “If you’re so innocent then tell me how you got here? Why you look like Cas?”

      “I don’t know. _None_ of us do. We don’t even remember what happened last night.”

      “So you’re saying you had a wild night and somehow ended up here?”

      “I’m not saying _anything_ … I don’t…” Misha growled in frustration, running his hands over his face, back and up through his hair, mussing it further, “Look, I’m not a threat, okay? _None of us are_.” Misha sighed, “We just want to get _home_.”

      “And where is ‘home’ exactly?”

      “I don’t know. Not here.” Misha shook his head, “We’re actors. We play you on tv. That’s why we look alike, this must be some multi dimensional crap like in ‘The French Mistake.’”

      “The what?”

      “The French Mistake? When you and Sam get transported by the angel Balthazaar to a dimension where your lives are a TV show?” Dean simply stared at him for a minute before shaking his head,

      “All I heard was ‘I’m crazy, our lives as a TV show, I’m crazy.’”

      “That hasn’t happened to you yet? Wait… Bobby still can’t walk… Is Gabriel alive?”

      “What? I don’t know –”

      “Have you met Balthazar? Did you kill the Whore yet?” Misha pressed, the look of incredulity intensifying on Dean’s face.

      “See, this doesn’t help your case. How the hell would you know about her?”

      “When?” Misha demanded, Dean sputtered for a moment, not replying, “When did it happen?” the angel-look-a-like invaded his personal space slightly, causing Dean to step back,

      “About a week ago, _why?_ What is it to you?” Dean’s face was contorted in frustration,

      “Dean, I know what’s going to happen because _we’ve filmed it before._ It happened in season five of the show, _we’re on season ten now_.” Misha trailed off as a knowing look crossed Dean’s face, “What?”

      “…Dicks.” At Dean’s annoyed glance upwards towards the sky, Misha understood.

      “Angels? Why would angels want to bring us here?”

      “Who else could have? They’ve had a hell of a time messing with us so far.”

      “I dunno… So, wait,” Misha raised an eyebrow at the hunter, hearing voices from inside, “does this mean you believe me?”

      “Nope.” Dean hefted his bag over his shoulder and strode past Misha.

      “Well then call Cas! Ask him yourself!” Misha followed on his heels onto the porch, nearly smacking into him as he paused in Bobby’s front doorway. “He believed me, he saved Jensen from _you_ didn’t he?”

Dean’s cranky glare seemed to only get worse at that, Misha thought he couldn’t look any more angry, letting out a low snort before turning, and disappearing into the house. Misha followed him, still carrying the bag of weapons. Both he and Dean stopped short as they walked into the living room, the slightly shorter man less surprised than the hunter in front of him.

      “Jared.” Misha plopped the bag down on the floor, walking past Dean and towards Jared and Sam, who currently sat side by side on the couch. They had been talking, _laughing_ , the only way he could tell who was who was because of the scruff growing on Jared’s face, Sam’s face still clean shaven.

      “Hey guys.” He still seemed tired, and a little apprehensive, but he stood.

      “You feelin’ okay?” Mark asked, and Jared nodded,

      “Yeah, man, I’m good…” he palmed his eyes tiredly, “Still kind of out of it, but… okay…” He swallowed at seeing Dean standing there, “I think.”

      “Then I did a satisfactory job in healing your heads?” Jared practically leapt out of his skin as another voice erupted from beside him, nearly blocking Sam from view.

      “Uh… yeah.” Jared swallowed hard as the angel held his gaze, “Thank you.”

      “You are welcome.”

The silence rang, everyone glancing back and forth between each other. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Mark finally cleared his throat,

      “So… what now?”

      “I may have tracked down a lead…” Castiel said quietly, “Though it may be a… long shot.”

      “What is it? The sooner we get these chuckleheads out of here, the better.” Dean snorted, ignoring the looks of annoyance from everyone else in the room.

      “I think we may be dealing with a Nephilim.” The angel said, “Half breeds.”

      “Half what?” Jared asked,

      “Angel.” Sam replied, which was strange to hear, but no one said anything about it,

      “It might,” Castiel continued, “Have the power to bring you here, but… I’m not sure who would have fathered such an abomination…”

      “How do you even know what it is?” Dean asked, “What, it leave its name and number on what’s-his-face here?” He jabbed his thumb in Jared’s direction, who merely rolled his eyes,

      “It may as well have. Nephilim have a distinct odor and aura, usually always sweet, earthy. Jared returned smelling of sage and amber.” Castiel shrugged, “Its reasons for saving Jared, I don’t know. I have a feeling it provided the food earlier as well.” the Angel lifted a large hand, and placed it at the center of Jared’s chest,

      “What’re you – _oh shit –_ ” it sounded as though someone had punched him in the gut, and he fell back on the couch beside Sam, jostling the youngest Winchester while he got his breath back.

      “The hell was that?” Dean barked, more out of surprise than concern as Castiel approached Misha.

      “Sigils.” He said simply as his hand touched Misha’s chest, and he too let out a wheeze of discomfort,

      “W-what the _fuck_ –” Misha fell back against the arm of the couch, Castiel shifting across the room towards Mark, who understandably was backing away, hands raised defensively,

      “Hang on a minute -” His eyes nearly bugged out of his head as Castiel’s hand easily weaved past his outstretched hands and pressed into his chest, “ _Ow!_ ”

      “Babies.” Dean grunted, plopping one of his bags down on Bobby’s desk, earning a glare from Misha,

      “Shut up …” He let out a low breath, “Ah… on the ribs?”

      “Yes.” The Angel nodded, Mark had already stood up straight again,

      “Oh… that wasn’t so bad.” He rubbed his chest lightly, “Ached a bit but…” Jared was already sitting up again. Misha, apparently, was still in pain, holding himself up on the arm of the couch, and Castiel tipped his head curiously at him.

      “Dmitri?” there was a slight tone of concern, his voice lifting ever so slightly as Castiel let out a low breath. Dean’s aggravated expression suddenly lifted to concern as he spotted, and Misha lifted a hand to his mouth to confirm the sensation, blood oozing out of his mouth and over his lower lip. The bright blue eyes seemed somehow brighter, and yet somehow hazy.

      “… _Fuck_ …”

      “Mish?!” Jared was on his feet in time to catch Misha as his knees buckled, only to have Castiel appear at his side, taking the weight of the unconscious man from him. His head lolled on the Angel’s shoulder, spittle and blood drooling onto the trenchcoat, and Misha’s breathy voice hit his ear.

      “I… I can see…” his limbs were trembling, though he tried to stand on his feet they kept slipping out from under him, “…The wings…”

Castiel felt Misha’s weight fall fully onto him, his head hitting his shoulder as his body slumped forwards, and Dean was unnerved by Castiel’s look of shock. His blue eyes were wide, his mouth hung open slightly, and wordlessly the Angel lifted Misha and began a pace towards the basement door,

      “What’s wrong with him?” Dean asked, Castiel didn’t respond, only disappeared down the steps, “Hey!” Mark began a swift pace after him, “Where the hell do you think you’re going? Get your ass back here, you’re not leaving my sight!”

      “Oh **_fuck off_**.”

A very spiteful bird was flipped Dean’s way as Mark disappeared after Castiel, and Sam stopped him from getting in Jared’s way. Judging by Jared’s gait and serious expression, he would have pushed right past Dean with little effort, and he hurried down the stairs after Mark.

      “You didn’t stop Mark, you’re sure as hell not stopping Jared, Dean.” Sam said, “I’ll keep an eye on them, you wait for Bobby and Jensen.”

      “Yeah but –” Dean was talking at Sam’s back, which left his line of sight as his younger brother went downstairs. Dean, standing alone, finally glanced around the room impatiently out of boredom.

Stupid dimension hopping freaks. Stupid pancake delivering Nephilim. Stupid. _Everything was stupid_.

Dean was unwilling to take his eyes off the basement doors should one of the copy-cats come back up, which judging by the muffled words from downstairs wasn’t going to happen soon. Instead, his attention was drawn to a cell phone now lying on the floor, right near where Misha had been.

He stooped and picked it up off the floor, plopping himself heavily on the warn couch before tapping the touch screen. He moved from app to app, moving through menus carelessly until he stumbled into the photos taken by Misha… and felt the anger in him fade a little bit.

He had a son. Young, blonde hair, and looked so much like him it was impossible that he was anyone else’s child… he became fixated on the photos, finding group pictures of he, Jared, Jensen, and sometimes Mark and what looked like Gabriel and Bobby. But the picture of his son… that was when guilt hit him, Misha’s words striking him clearly now.

      _We just want to get **home**_.

They weren’t monsters or changelings, they were four poor bastards who wanted to get back home, to their families, who were pulled into _his mess_ …

He’d injured an innocent man when he’d pistol whipped Jensen, but what was he supposed to think when he saw an exact duplicate of himself standing nearby? Sam seemed at ease with their new guests from the beginning and Dean realized now that maybe he’d picked on something he would not, or _could not_ , comprehend… or maybe he was far more forgiving and intuitive than Dean, and the elder Winchester had to entertain the idea that he might just simply losing his edge.

There was a loud cry of pain from downstairs, and though the voice was still new to Dean, he recognized it as Misha’s. There was the sound of stamping feet, and without a word Mark strode with an aggravated growl past Dean, out the front door, slamming it shut as Jared reached the top step. Sam, apparently, was still downstairs, and his slightly older looking counterpart now stood alone, his hands shoved into his pockets, his face grave.

      “So, uh…” Dean stood from the couch, Misha’s phone still in hand, “How’s he doing?” Jared swallowed hard, fidgeting slightly,

      “…The bleeding stopped, but Castiel can’t figure out what’s hurting him.” He had this strange distant look on his face, Dean recognized it from Sam’s own features. It was a look of near defeat, or helplessness, and Dean hated it on Jared’s face as much as he hated it on Sam’s,

      “Hey.” Dean’s voice was firm, “He’ll be fine. Cas’s taken care of me n’ you during…” Dean stopped himself, biting his lower lip as Jared averted his eyes, “…Cas’s taken care of me and _Sam_ during worse, alright?” Jared threw a glance down the basement stairs at hearing another pained yelp, before nodding slowly.

      “…Okay. Yeah. You’re right…” But he didn’t sound like he believed it, and at that point Dean couldn’t blame him for feeling out of sorts. Jared’s boots thudded quietly against the floor as he made a slow walk past Dean, “I think I’m gonna… get some air with Mark.”

      “Yeah.” Dean heard the front door open, then close, sitting back down on the couch. He lifted the phone again, taking a last look at the child on the screen, before tossing the thing onto the cushion beside him. “You do that.”

~*~

It had to be the _worst_ Devil’s trap that Crowley had **_ever seen_**. That in itself made him more suspicious than he already was.

He didn’t touch the bottle and tumbler that had been left in the circle as an offering either. The lines were sketched out in mud and grass, flawed and broken in several different sections. He could have stepped right out if he wanted to, but decided against it as he lifted his eyes, looking towards the skinny wrecked body standing just outside the circle.

      “Huh.” The light of the setting sun was just enough to illuminate the rail thin man just outside, “Geryon must be shitting hellfired bricks if you’re out, sunshine. Say,” Crowley pointed idly towards the long and thin legs of his host, “Aren’t you missing a few legs there, Slippy?”

      “Four.” Greasy black hair fell into his face, the light tone didn’t seem fitting for a man right out of a cage in hell. “I’m missing four. But that’s alright.”

A beat up leather tunic and pants, bare feet, hazel eyes, pale skin… he looked a hell of a lot like the annoying Trickster that had fathered him…er, _mothered him_ … at least that’s what rumor dictated.

      “Uh huh…” Crowley glanced around carefully, “So, Sleip… any particular reason you decided to conjure me and _trap_ me? Pagan god like you has got to have more important things on his plate, especially after slipping out of a cage in hell.”

      “I… need your help.” This wasn’t the voice of a pagan god who had been crossed. This was the faked softness of a slippery shit with an ulterior motive. This wasn’t the same entity that Crowley had, personally, torn the skin off on several occasions.

      “Do you _really?_ Forgive my lack of enthusiasm… I couldn’t help but already _notice_ that, seeing as you were desperate enough to trap me here.” A deep frown formed on Crowley’s face, “Drop the puppy dog eyes, Horse-Face, I’ve spent long enough in hell to know that nobody steps out timid.” The look of confusion faded from Sleipnir’s face, the soft features hardening severely with malice.

      “Sharp as ever, Fergus.” It was a strange expression, though Crowley was familiar with the strange hunger and chaotic fury behind the blue orbs. That was some impressive repressed rage, mixed with boredom, trauma, and still fading anxiety.

      “Whatever. Having had you on the rack once or twice personally, I know what you sound like when you’re begging for real.” The small sharp eyes seemed to burn at the words, Crowley exhaling through his nose. “Can we hurry this up? Deals are rare these days and I’ve got more than a few former acquaintances who’d love to use my scrotum as a coinpurse.”

      “I want information.” Long toes squelched in the mud, “About Loki, about my sister. It’s the only reason I don’t flay the skin from your meatsuit.”

      “Oh, can’t keep track of Daddy dearest? That’s a shame. As for your sister I haven’t seen her since they tied that bitch up for crimes you committed.” Crowley snorted, “And I use the term ‘bitch’ literally.”

He smelled sulfur and burnt meat on Sleipnir, the pagan god’s natural scent having faded in his time in the pit. Crowley remembered it as cloves and cut grass, though that was a long time before he’d burned the skin off him.

      “She’s off her leash, has been for years. She hopped into a meatsuit and out of the way.”

      “Out of the way? What’d she do, hide under a rock?” He could sympathize a little, but she must have done a damn good job in hiding if even he hadn’t even smelled her–

Oh…wait a minute…

_Out of the way_ … was an understatement if Crowley’s new suspicion was correct.

If he was right, he knew _exactly_ where the wolf-girl was.

      “No. Just out. Away. To another place, another time.”

Bugger all, he was right. Four eyes in the limo wasn’t just sticking her nose in Crowley’s business for fun, she’d been cleaning up a mess… How did she not _remember_ him?

      “That so?” Crowley didn’t let the small amount of excitement about his realization show on his face, “And that would be… where?”

      “Here. But not here.”

      “Ah… that… clarifies things.” Crowley snorted, “And you need me _why_?”

      “I’ve managed to pull her here, to pull her home, but I’ve lost track of her, and I can’t find my father without her.”

And Crowley suspected he’d yanked a few more people here than intended, like his look alike Mark.

      “And you need me _why_ exactly?”

      “Come on Crowley…” the hungry gaze became more intense, so intense Crowley thought his hair might catch fire, “My nose still works just fine.”

      “Funny, considering I ripped it off of you more than once.” Crowley felt that weird paranoid twitch at the back of his mind, the kind of twitch that told him on multiple occasions to get the fuck out of dodge. “What, I step in cow shit? That’s your fault for bringing me out here –”

      “I can smell the bitch on you, Demon.”

Sleipnir barely heard the snapping of fingers before his eyes burned intensely, blinding him for a moment as the air become heavy with sulfur and smoke.

By the time he had regained his senses, and his eyes, the King of the Crossroads was gone, out of the circle carved hurriedly into the mud.

And so was the bottle of Craig.

 

~*~

The paint on the ceiling was cracked and peeling. And there was a spider in the corner who looked pissed off at the half assed clearing away of its web that Dean had pretended to be enthusiastic about.

Sam snored softly where he was, curled up on the floor with half of the pillows from the couch. Mark had tried to convince the taller man to take the couch, that he wasn’t going to sleep anyway, but the youngest Winchester insisted that it was no big deal before lying down and passing out.

Dean had ordered Jensen and Jared out of the house after Sam had helped Bobby to bed. Jensen was now sharing the front seat of the Impala with Dean, their faces pressed against the windows while they slept. Dean had mentioned how Jared was too fucking big for the backseat but he somehow managed to lay down and fall asleep, Mark then told the hunter Jared could pretty much sleep anywhere. In a chair, standing up, curled into a ball, Jared and Jensen had slept in all sorts of weird positions during long days of shooting.

Dean seemed unimpressed until he settled down in the Impala and saw, to his annoyance, he and Jensen had taken up identical positions to sleep in. He kicked Jensen in the shin and feigned sleep as Jensen woke with a start, only to receive a vengeful wet willy from Jared.

And for some reason, Dean didn’t shoot Jared for it.

Castiel had been attached to Mark’s hip as the man sat on the step of the front porch. The angel was quiet, Mark couldn’t even hear him breathe or shift, the chilled summer night silent apart from a few crickets. Until the angel decided to clear his throat and inform Mark of his departure he hadn’t said a word, merely stood there in silence.

It was a surprise to Mark, because Misha was downstairs, locked up tight in the panic room and strapped down to the bed. He half expected Castiel to stand in a constant vigil over him, but he apparently deemed him safe enough in the panic room.

Mark wasn’t so sure. He wasn’t sure about _anything_ anymore…

Knowing he wasn’t going to get any sleep, he lifted himself quietly off the couch cushions, gently placing a hand on Sam’s shoulder.

      “Sam?” it wasn’t nearly loud enough to wake the young hunter, so he gently shook him, “Sam. Wake up.”

      “…Huhwha…”

      “Can’t sleep. Take the couch.” Silently, Sam obeyed, and fell right back to snoring. Mark quietly made his way to the front door.

They told him to try and get some sleep.

Right. Like that was going to happen.

He stood out on the steps again, the Impala a little ways to the right of his vision, he could see the back of Jensen’s head in the passenger window, Jared’s feet in the back, and if he stared hard enough he could see Dean’s shoulder. It was still quiet. Not even the crickets dared to disturb the night, and Mark sat on the step again, a pang of worry shooting through him as he rested his head on his knees.

Despite knowing that he was safest with the Winchesters, he had the face of one of their many enemies… maybe not a total enemy at this point, but he certainly wasn’t their favorite person in the world. If they suspected, even for a moment, that Mark was Crowley pulling a fast one, they’d lock him up, maybe interrogate him, and considering they had the firepower it wasn’t as though Jared and Jensen could help him.

And _Misha_ …

Shit, everything was going to hell in a handbasket…

He ran a hand down over his face, stubble scratching over skin as he let out a low sigh, blinking tiredly, as he stared out across the driveway and down the dirt road.

      _Mark_.

He jumped a little, immediately on his feet, nearly tripping up on the edge of the wooden planks he had sat upon. The Impala was quiet, windows shut, so were the windows of the house, and no one was around. He was alone, hearing whispers in the dark… this was _not_ a good sign.

Apart from the moon in the sky, there was no light, and with his limited vision Mark suddenly became aware of something moving in the dark in front of him.

Something _big._

And it huffed and _growled_ at him.

Instinctively he backed up, stumbling onto the porch and groping for the door. At hearing the huff again, and hearing the tell tale sound of claws clicking against wood, he froze. Something pressed against his back, something firm and warm, and it snuffled and snorted up and down his legs and shoulders.

      ‘ _I’m dead. I’m Hellhound crap._ ’ Swallowing hard, he began to turn the doorknob, but found the fabric of his shirt pulled, jerking him away from the house.

There was the sound of paws again, and Mark whirled around in time to see the beast melt back into the darkness, leaving behind paw prints in the dirt and a black package at the base of the stairs. Tentatively, he reached out and took it in his fingers, the black wrapping paper smooth against his skin, and in the dark he could see something scrawled on it in silver sharpie.

Mark glanced around, hearing nothing, before going back inside the house, not bothering to rouse the heavily armed hunter from his sleep in a locked car.

Because he’d rather get eaten by a giant wolf than wake Dean up from a sound sleep. He slipped into the kitchen, and by the light of his cell phone read the writing scrawled on the package that fit into his palm.

      ‘ _Mark,_

_I’ve been holding this for someone for a while. I’ve gotta lay low for your sake, so I need you to hang onto it for a little bit._

_He’ll understand when you give this to him._ ’

Just…

….What?

He turned the package over in his hands, spotting more silver sharpie on the back.

      ‘ _PS:_

_You’ll know who it is when he needs it most._ ’ There was a little heart drawn, along with a smiley face next to the warning, and he swallowed hard before his fingers hooked into a fold of the paper, and tore it back.

A box, not a surprise, but when he opened it he found another note folded above a loosely wrapped leather string.

He shoved the wrapping into his pants pocket before hooking the black leather cord around his forefinger, lifting the necklace out of the small box. The small silver pendant left the black silk lining the box, was cold against his fingers, and it didn’t feel like metal as he expected. Instead, the small tarnished and blackened silver feather felt like just that; a feather. It was about two inches long, and while it chilled him, it also made his hand tingle, nearly burn. Mark examined it thoroughly before carefully tucking it into his pocket, throwing the box and wrapping away.

Mark finally turned his attention to the unread note in his hand, unfolding it,

      ‘ _Go check on Sleeping Beauty. He’s not alone._ ’

Mark wasn’t sure why he ran, he was as quiet as possible, and somehow managed to not wake up Sam. He practically flew down the steps, and wound up nearly smacking face first into the panic room door, twisting the handle and flinging himself into the room.

He didn’t know what or who he’d been expecting, but it wasn’t _this_.

      “ _Sam!_ ” It flew out of Mark’s mouth before he could stop himself, making the man in front of him laugh, “ _Help!_ ”

      “He can’t help you.” The thin and tall figure rivaled Sam and Jared in height, greasy black hair falling into his face. Misha was no longer in his cot, “So sorry about this.”

      “Put him down!”

      “I don’t think so. But,” thin fingers waved Mark closer, “You’re welcome to try.”

      “ ** _Sam!_** ” Unthinking Mark rushed forwards, intent on at least landing a punch on the creature’s face. Instead, he found himself lifted into the air, a thin hand wrapped around his throat, the creature holding him up with a bored and somewhat annoyed expression.

Well _shit_.

He wasn’t exactly a fighter, but he knew he was tougher than _this_.

He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t move, his entire body suddenly going limp in the grip of the madman. Heat began to envelope him, he heard Sam pounding down the steps, he kicked, he punched, his head swam, only the three loud gunshots managed to startle his attacker, and the three rounds to the chest did hardly anything.

The muzzle of the pistol still smoked, Sam’s face was one of surprise and slight panic, a low and breathy laugh left the creature holding Mark in the air.

      “Samuel Winchester…” he chuckled, “A pleasure to make your acquaintance. My name,” he said, nodding politely, “Is Sleipnir. Please feel free to pursue me, as I do intend to kill your friends.”

Mark let out a low snarl in as he kicked out at Sleipnir again, his foot connecting with the thin, pale face, but only seemed to make the creature snort in annoyance, Sam opening fire again upon the malnourished and greasy demigod.

But it didn’t matter, his world went black not two seconds later, and the darkness smelled like burning skin and sulfur. Mark hoped that it wasn’t his skin, or Misha’s for that matter, as consciousness found him again.

It was cold, very cold, the ground was hard and wet beneath him, a strange flickering light causing him to shield his eyes as he sat up. Misha wasn’t burning, but the floor around him sure was, and he hadn’t woken up just yet either. He could see fog rolling out of his own mouth, his skin felt frozen while his core felt uncomfortably hot, a strange shivering rolling through him as he got to his feet.

The body in the circle of flames suddenly began to stir, Misha slowly rolling himself onto his side with a pained grunt, a ragged cough working out of him that splattered the ground with blood.

      “Misha!” He had to get to him, step into the ring of fire and _somehow_ get himback to Bobby’s. But as he rushed forwards, he felt a strange prickling along his skin, the hair standing up on his arms…

And then he smashed headfirst into an invisible wall.

He let out a shout of surprise, his body lurching backwards, and he fell back onto the ground, clutching at his now bleeding nose.

      “You can’t get to him. He can’t get to you.” The weird smell of burning hair got stronger, soft footfalls echoed through the darkened warehouse. “That’s the point of a Devil’s Trap and the burning Holy Oil, you know.” He wasn’t dressed in a ruined tunic and pants anymore, he was wearing a deep green suit and scarf, hair still greasy but it was slicked back now out of his boney face.

      “What… I’m not a demon!” Mark fumed, getting to his feet and moving again. He held his arms out in front of him, expecting to simply move forwards through the cold air, but instead they smacked right into the barrier. “How did…” The barrier burned his skin lightly, it felt like a mild sunburn, “ _How’d you do this?!_ ” Mark’s hands tightened into fists, striking the unseen wall,“ _Let me out!_ ”

      “I merely drew out a Trap.” A thin finger pointed downwards, “Just _look._ ”

Mark was almost afraid to glance downwards, but he did anyway, his eyes traveling over the pentagram and symbols splattered on the ground in white paint. The wall that stopped him was along the very edges of the circle, and with a growl of anger he struck the wall again, and again, and again. It didn’t budge, his hands were burning now, and he fell back to the center of the circle, the stinging pain in his hands seeming only get worse as the seconds wore on.

      “Look, now you’ve burned your hands.” Sleipnir frowned, looking slightly disappointed at the reaction from Mark. “…Satisfied?”

      “I’m not a demon, this… how’d you do this?!”

      “You asked that already, you know. And seeing as your friend over there,” There was a lazy motion towards Misha, who was still coughing and hacking as he tried to sit up, “Is being destroyed from the inside out, I think it’s time for a little explanation as to _why_ these circles work. Now…” there was a toothy grin, the thin face splitting with enjoyment as the sallow skinned and gaunt faced man motioned to the ground beneath their feet, “Ask me why your friend is dying.”

Mark swallowed hard, knowing he most likely wouldn’t like the answer,

      “What’s wrong with Misha?”

      “Misha,” Sleipnir pointed at him, “Is being torn up from the inside out, the Grace forming in him is too much for his mortal body to handle. Angels are not born with bodies, you see, or a soul, and yet one is being born right here with both.”

At that moment Misha retched up a mouthful of blood, it poured down his chin and the front of his shirt.

      “But Misha isn’t an Angel! Castiel is the Angel! And I’m not the demon! _Crowley is the demon!_ ” A strange pressure was building in Mark, almost like an intense headache, and his irritability increased along with the wind howling outside of the warehouse.

      “Ah!” Sleipnir held up a single forefinger, “But you _are_ Crowley. And Crowley is _you_ , though I doubt he would ever admit it.” Polished shoes scraped against the moist ground, “In your world, Demons and Angels don’t exist. But they exist here. And seeing as Crowley is a fully fledged Crossroads demon…” the smiled widened, “That is what you are becoming. You can feel the demons outside, yes?”

      “Why?”

      “Because if you had been born here, you would have been Fergus McLeod, and later Crowley, King of the Crossroads. If he had been born in your world he would have been Mark Sheppard. You are him, he is you. It’s the same with Misha.”

      “Why’s it hurting Misha? Cas is an angel, he heals people. How come I’m not puking up blood… and for Christ’s sake!” Mark jabbed a finger at Misha, was had somehow pushed himself onto his knees, and was bent over the floor, “Help him! Fix this!”

      “Oh no. No, no, _no_. I will do no such thing!” Sleipnir looked indignant, pressed a hand to his chest almost as if Mark had insulted him, “Save you and not thank my little demonic helpers? Perish the thought!”

      “Wha… _thank_ …” Mark’s face paled, eyes widening, “What’d you do?!”

      “I may or may not have promised them a meal. You may be trapped in there, but they can get you out. It’s like opening a can of beans before you eat it. And they’re not effected by Holy Fire in the slightest.”

The howling wind outside the building got louder, and louder, Mark could hear a sudden snarling from outside, muffled by the walls

      “Why kill us? Why pull us here just to feed us to your pets?!”

      “That was a… fortunate accident.” Sleipnir said dismissively, gloved hand waving back and forth as if to wave the thought away, “I was actually just looking for my sister, who had taken a fondness to your world and decided to hide in it. When I pulled her here, I accidentally pulled a few you with her.” He looked thoughtful for a moment, “At least, that’s how I _think_ it happened…”

      “Don’t do this! Send us back, _send us all back!_ ”

      “Hmm… no. I don’t think so. And even if I wanted to, I’m not nearly powerful enough, I had help last time.” Sleipnir said, “You see, she seems to have taken a fondness to you, my sister. In fact you met her just a few hours ago, right before I brought you here.” Mark’s look of confusion must have been apparent, “Don’t you recall? I can smell her on you, the smell of sage, Amber, and _wet dog_.”

Mark suddenly recalled the snuffling and growling creature that had left him the mysterious black package, and wondered if maybe that’s what this lunatic was talking about.

      “I… I don’t –”

      “Doesn’t matter. Even if you don’t know her, she knows _you_. She’ll come.” The smiled faded, slowly being replaced by a bitter frown, “And when she does, I’ll feed all of you to the hunger demons waiting outside.”

      “The… Nephilim.” Misha’s voice was quiet, harsh, almost as if his throat hurt him, “You’re the Nephilim…”

      “Ah! It lives! You must have felt me coming hours before I arrived, and yet you couldn’t get out of bed to warn them. How _frustrating_ for you. I managed to scramble Castiel’s little Angel radar, but _you_ …” He kneeled beside the burning ring, resting his chin in his hand, studying the man on his hands and knees, “What is it about fledglings that makes you so sensitive? Tell me… can you feel her coming?”

Misha’s eyes were wide with pain and understanding, blood still dripping from his lips as he tentatively nodded.

      “Misha!” Mark’s fists struck the barrier again, “You alright?!” There was a shake of the head, his limbs were trembling,

      “She’s coming…” Misha said in a low voice, and he threw a glare at Sleipnir, “And… she’s _mad_.”

The howling wind outside of the warehouse rattled the windows and rusted door, several panes of glass loosening themselves from the windows and falling to the floor. They shattered loudly, as the small slivers of glass tumbled away across the floor, the old and creaking door slammed open, a gust of wet and cold air rushing into the room.

      “ _Sleipnir!_ ”

She didn’t look all that holy, or impressive. Just a girl in sneakers and jeans, a loose fitting black sweatshirt, with brown hair and glasses. She looked average in every way, including height, but somehow… as she walked forwards, even with her hair in her eyes, her stride was menacing.

      “Fenrir!” the smile seemed to be genuine, and he stood upright away from Misha.

      “Get away from them!” she snarled, straight white teeth suddenly seemed pointed, the protective tone of voice punctuated by the snarls lining her speech,

      “My dear sweet baby sister, it is _good_ to see you.”

      “ _Away from them. **Now**_.”

      “Oh I don’t think so… I’m rather fond of this Misha fellow…”

      “Bullshit! There’s a legion of Hunger Demons waiting outside! You’ll leave, _and you’ll leave now! Or I’ll -_ ”

      “Or you’ll _what_.” The smile instantly vanished, the grim frown reappearing on his face, “Call daddy to help you? He didn’t help you when they chained you for Ragnarok, Odin slayer, _he won’t help you now_. Go ahead and call him.”

      “I already _did_.” She puffed hair out of her face, continuing her pace forwards, forcing Sleipnir to take a few long paces backwards. Fenrir placed herself beside Misha’s burning circle as he let out a cry, slumping back down on the ground,

      “And you honestly think he’ll answer?” The tall and thin demigod sneered, his sister’s full lips turned downwards into a scowl,

      “Doesn’t matter if he does, either way _I’m gonna rip the eyes from your head._ ”

      “I’m sure you would, I’d be a fool to challenge you. But, I’m not a fool.”

      “I saw the wards, Sleip. You knew that they can’t keep me out.”

      “They’re not meant to. They’re meant to _keep you in_.” Sleipnir smirked,

      “You _idiot_ ,” Fenrir’s voice deepened with annoyance, “You’re trapped here too! They’ll be sucking your bones clean just like the rest of us. You did all of this for _nothing._ ”

      “I told you. I’m not a fool, I learned from father well enough…” He made a graceful bow, “Because… _I’m_ not even _here_.”

In a burst of green smoke, the doppleganger was gone, and the walls and roof of the warehouse seemed to vibrate and growl. Mark felt the floor beneath him crack, the paint ripping up from the floor as she girl made a small motion with her hands.

      “I can’t cross the fire!” The menacing growl had left her voice, the look of rage had faded, instead there was only panic, “Hurry!” She was shifting her weight from foot to foot in a nervous dance,

      “What d’you want _me_ to do?!”

      “I can’t touch the flames!” she made frantic motions towards Misha, “Get him out!”

Mark hurriedly glanced around, and sighed with relief as he saw, to his _astounding_ luck, a rusted bucket that had collected rain. He quickly sprinted to it, picking it up and tossing its contents onto the ring of flames.

Misha didn’t even move when doused in the disgusting water, which Mark made a mental note to apologize for later, and the girl immediately seized Misha, grunting with effort as she managed to sling the man over her shoulder. He made a small moan of pain, body completely slack as the girl lifted him off the ground.

The snarling and roaring from outside the warehouse suddenly intensified, they could hear hands and feet smashing into the walls and windows, pounding against the door.

      “Now get us out of here!” Mark snapped, she shook her head,

      “I can’t.” her hair fell into her face again. “The wards. The most I can do now is keep them from getting in!”

      “What do we do?” Mark’s stomach dropped as she swallowed hard, face falling.

      “I… Might be able to fight off some of them…” She shook her head, “You could try to hide, maybe?”

So. This was it.

Mark Sheppard was going to die with Misha and some weakened Nephilim in a filthy warehouse. He was going to get torn apart by demons too, which was not an option of dying that he had considered before.

At that moment, all he wanted to do was see his kids.

      “Well, amigo,” a hand landed on his shoulder, making him jump, the scent of gummy worms and chocolate entering his nostrils, “I can do you one better.” Mark’s eyes widened again, and he jolted backwards, “I can get you the hell outta here, and you can live to guest star another day. How’s that sound?”

      “Loki!” Fenrir sighed with relief, “I didn’t think you’d answer!”

      “Heya sweet cheeks.” There was something unusually tender in his gaze, something Mark hadn’t seen before, even with Richard, and was surprised to see the Archangel lift a hand, and gently pinch the Nephilim’s cheek, “’Course I’d answer your call… Least I can do.”

He wasn’t smirking like Mark expected him to be, his eyes were soft, his smile timid… almost like he was sad.

      “What do I do?” The Nephilim asked, earning widening of that smile from the Archangel.

      “Nothing.”

      “But Loki –”

      “It’s okay kiddo, you can let go now. I got it.”

      “Let go?” Mark’s eyes were still wide with amazement, “You mean _let them in_?”

      “Yeah, that’s what I mean.” He motioned towards Fenrir, “Gimme Sleeping Beauty.” Mark made a small noise of protest as Fenrir let Gabriel take Misha from her, “Hey, buddy!” A hand slapped Misha’s cheek, making him start, “Wake up! Pay attention!”

Misha managed to keep his eyes open for a few moments, but splattered blood on Gabriel’s shirt and coat when he coughed again.

      “Are you sure?” Fenrir seemed worried, anxious, a hand still resting on Misha’s shoulder.

      “Get Mark out of here.” Gabriel ordered, “The wards are gone, you can go.”

      “What about you? There’s a full legion that defected from Hell out there -”

      “Oh _please_.” He rolled his eyes, “Once I’m done here, Geryon’s gonna be sending me a muffin basket. Now get him,” Gabriel motioned his head towards Mark, “Out of here before I accidentally vaporize him.”

      “I can help -”

      “You already did, sweetheart. Now go.”

Mark had very little time to respond as the girl’s slender hand reached for him, and he sputtered as he tried to vocalize his concerns.

      “Wait, what about –”

The complaint went silent in a burst of fragrant purple smoke, the Nephilim and fledgling demon disappeared from view, leaving Gabriel to chuckle as he heard groans and growls of hunger from outside. He patted Misha’s face again, setting him down on the ground gently, letting the man rest on his knees.

Gabriel stood above him as the windows disintegrated, the door bursting off of its hinges.

      “Alright there, Pretty Boy.” Gabriel saw black smoke billowing into the room, swirling and hovering around them, until he could barely see beyond Misha’s slumped shoulders. “You ready?”

      “For… for what?” Gabriel could feel the fear and discomfort rolling off of him in waves,

      “You have to say yes.”

      “Why?”

      “So you’ll live, dipshit!” Gabriel clear his throat, his hand gripping Misha’s chin, tipping his head back, “Dmitri Krushnic, do you accept you role in the choir of angels?”

      “…Yes.”

      “Do you accept me as your brother? Castiel as your twin? Will you share your Grace and use it to defend His creations?”

      “Y-yes…” Misha’s answer was shaky, but Gabriel saw his eyes open wider, clarity returning to his gaze, seeming to absorb just who it was in front of him. “…Gabriel?”

      “Hey there, champ.” Gabriel lifted his right hand, resting his palm on Misha’s forehead, the thick black smoke around them a suffocating cloud. “ _B`nay ha-Elohim_. _Khabs am Pekht_.”

What happened next… even Gabriel had to squint a little bit. It was always an intense moment when an angel was born, Misha’s body stiffening and going completely rigid before light began to pour from his mouth and eyes. It moved like molten metal, seeping from his nose and ears, out from under his fingernails, tears of light rolling down his cheeks.

Gabriel kept his grip as the light grew brighter and brighter, moving outwards, slowly pushing back the monstrous cloud of demonic energy, until it finally burst forth from the man’s body, and Gabriel watched the clouds of darkness burn and fizzle, disappearing from sight as the warehouse was illuminated.

The light lasted for a few minutes, during that time the wind went silent, and the snarls ceased. The white light began to fade slowly, ever so slowly, until Misha’s body relaxed, and the molten tears of light seemed to absorb back into his skin.

Misha let out an exhausted groan before slumping forwards his head lolling back as Gabriel caught him. Bright blue eyes seemed brighter as they absorbed the grin on the Archangel’s face,

      “What… what just happened?”

      “You, my very lucky homo sapien, just became an angel. How you feelin’ baby bro?”

Misha wasn’t sure if he wanted to punch Gabriel in the face or kiss him, his body gave a shudder before his eyes rolled back into his head, and he fell into unconsciousness.

~*~

Mark, Fen, Sam, Dean, Jared, Jensen, and Castiel were standing in the living room when they heard the sound of wings beating air, and their surprise was obvious on their faces when they saw Gabriel standing in the kitchen. Misha was draped unceremoniously over his shoulder, and yet Gabriel didn’t seem phased.

            “Hey guys! I fixed your Mud monkey! So,” he dropped Misha harshly on the floor, clapping his hands and rubbing them together, “Who do I gotta smite to get some pie around here?”


	3. Play Your Roles

…What the hell were they doing?

Were… they shopping for food?

      “I’m telling you, Sam won’t eat that.” The taller one said, the shorter sweatshirt sporting girl scoffed, flinging her hands in the air indignantly.

      “Why? It’s perfectly good! …Stop eating the gummy worms until after we pay!”

      “Hello? _Archangel._ ”

Yeah, shopping for food for the boys, when the two of them had walked into the shopping center he was certain that a Nephilim and Angel didn’t need food… The short one Crowley recognized as the annoying creature that had stolen Jared away, but the taller one… If that man was who Crowley thought he was, then he had to treat the situation delicately.

      “Huh…” Crowley ducked back around the corner of the aisle as the girl spun around, “You smell that?”

      “I smell sulfur.”

      “Yeah me too.”

      “And Scotch.” There was silence in the aisle, and after a moment Crowley peered back around the corner to find it empty. He was puzzled for a moment, until he heard a very loud sigh behind him, looking over his shoulder.

Oh shit.

      “You know, spying isn’t really your style.” She said, arms folded over her chest, “Normally you’d have your little underlings do it.”

Curiosity killed, mangled, and shat the cat out, but Crowley knew it was the reason he was there. He could have avoided this whole situation, at least for a little while.

But _no_. Instead he had to get curious about a demigod’s lapse in memory.

      “If I had two underlings to rub together they’d be here and not me, _Nephilim._ ” He said sourly, frowning deeply,

      “Am I smiting him? We still smite demons, right?” The Archangel was hard to take seriously, he had a gummy worm hanging out of the corner of his mouth.

      “No, not yet.” She shifted her weight from her left foot to her right, “What gave me away? The eyes? The smell?”

      “A very disgruntled horse-child with daddy issues.” Crowley said snarkily, “Though I’m not sure he even knows that his dead beat daddy is the Messenger of God.”

      “And she’s not letting me smite you… why?” Gabriel honestly looked puzzled,

      “Don’t know.” Crowley shifted his gaze from the Archangel to the Nephilim, “Why don’t you ask her?”

Fenrir shrugged, puffing air out of her mouth to blow hair out of her face, pushing her glasses farther up the bridge of her nose.

      “I dunno. Maybe we should put you in a Devil’s Trap and leave you for Sleip.”

Her poker face was scary good, because despite scouring those bright hazel eyes for any emotion, Crowley still couldn’t tell if she was being serious or not.

      “Look,” Crowley grumbled, “I was content to keep out of this after you took Moose from my trunk. Your brother dragged me back in.”

      “You say that as if you actually would be a bother if you went against us.” Gabriel said in a low voice,

      “Trust me,” Crowley’s voice took a hard edge to it, “I could be the biggest pain in your ass, alive or dead.”

      “I seriously doubt that, sweetheart.” His breath ceased to smell like candy, and instead began to smell earthy, pungent like blood.

      “I’m beginning to want to smack that smirk off your face, buttercup.”

Pissing off an archangel wasn’t the best idea, considering the once cheerful looking Seraph was glaring at him with darkened eyes.

      “Oh, knock it off.” The Nephilim rolled her eyes, “We don’t have time for this shit. Save the pissing contest for later.”

      “I just don’t see why, if he can handle himself, he’s coming to us with his tail between his legs.”

      “Are you kidding? He was going to try and kill me just because I happened to _smell_ like her.” He saw Gabriel purse his lips, quirking them in a weird cynical frown. “He dragged you back, and he dragged my look alike and his friends along with him.”

      “And you’re not hiding under a rock because…?” Gabriel’s right eyebrow raised.

An Angel, and a Nephilim…

Lying would be pointless.

      “Curiosity.” The King of the Crossroads admitted spitefully, and Fenrir’s folded arms fell to her sides,

      “Indulging you. Why?”

      “Sleipnir’s got friends in Hell, Geryon’s even moving to get him back in his cage. I don’t want to get in the way of that. I’m safest, and I can’t believe the words are coming out of my mouth…” Crowley sighed, “With… the two of you. With those idiot hunters and their doe eyed angel. I’m… curious to see what happens next.”

Her face was still unreadable, Gabriel’s holding that amused by skeptical look.

He could have been as good as smote and didn’t know it.

      “…Fine.” Her voice nearly startled Crowley after the long silence, his shock was shared with the archangel.

      “Wait. ‘Fine?’” Gabriel snorted, “Seriously?”

      “Yes. Fine. On one condition.”

      “And what’s that?” Crowley frowned deeply,

      “You’re paying for groceries.” It wasn’t a question, and she grabbed one of his hands and dragged him away, despite his low growl of annoyance. The fingers gripping his hand were warm, almost painfully so.

      “The hell they need food for?” He grunted irritably, letting himself be led. “Haven’t they fed the Sasquatch enough?”

      “Bobby’s house, while safe, doesn’t exactly have anything I can work with.” Fenrir said, “With all the shit happening, Gabriel can’t really create food out of thin air constantly, it’d give us away.”

      “So I’m footing the bill for this whole thing.”

      “Yup. You are officially our sponsor, moneybags.”

      “Nutella.” The archangel said suddenly, getting a rolling of the eye from the Nephilim,

      “We need to get _real_ food.”

      “That _is_ real food.” Gabriel countered.

      “ _Fine._ ”

      “Sweet! If I get to eat that shit off a chocolate bar, then I’m willing to hold off on frying sunshine here.”

     

~*~

 _Thunk_.

      “Ow!... _Fuck!_ ”

_Slam, thunk, bam._

Dean’s head lifted from the desk, looking to Sam, who was rising from the couch at the noises coming from the basement, Mark looking up from the kitchen table. He and Dean’s eyes locked,

      “Was that…” Mark seemed puzzled at the sounds, “…Misha?”

They were up on their feet at the sound, hurrying down the basement steps, Mark could hear Jared and Jensen coming through the front door. There was more slamming and banging from the panic room, coinciding with noises of pain and frustration from Misha. Dean was the first to the door, and after he pulled it open he was the first inside.

No sooner had he stepped into the room, something slammed into his midsection hard enough to knock him back, and push the wind right out of him. His back hit the ground, his head spun, and he heard Misha make a small noise of surprise,

      “Dean!” Sam’s large hands were gripping his shoulders, lifting him onto his feet, “What the hell happened?”

Dean couldn’t respond, too busy staring at what had shoved him out in the first place, he and Mark had their eyes fixed on what was inside of the room.

Not that they could really see into the room, the way was blocked by a mass of dark feathers, which now was stuck awkwardly in the doorway, hooked against the top of the door

      “Oh _shit…_ Sorry! I can’t…” Misha let out a grunt of effort, hunching over further on the cot, ducking slightly to avoid being struck in the head. “I can’t help it!”

Mark’s mouth had fallen open, the wing that was caught in the curve of the door suddenly tensed and bent, but instead of folding up and retreating back into the room, it pulled Misha right off the cot. It was twitching and jerking, and as Misha fell to the ground with an aggravated snarl, it wedged itself further out of the room, feathers brushing against Mark’s face.

Mark couldn’t help but lift his hands and take a firm hold of the appendage in front of him, making sure that the feathers between his fingers were real.

They were.

      “Holy… _shit_ …”

There was a strangled yelp from inside the room, a barely stifled giggle from Misha, and Mark bent down and tipped his head to peer inside at him,

      “Hey! Whoever is touching it, _stop_.” He was still hunched over, somehow having managed to wrap his arms around his new left appendage, barely keeping it from unfurling in the small space.

      “You alright?” Mark’s question coincided with Dean and Sam ducking into the room as Jensen and Jared peered down the stairs.

      “I’m fine apart from…these … seriously, let go. That tickles.”

      “Sorry.” Mark instantly released his hold on the dark feathers, and without thinking smoothed them back into place. The motion got him a violent twitch from the wing, and shoved him back a few feet.

It didn’t hurt and he didn’t fall over, so he counted himself lucky,

      “What happened?” Jensen called the down the stairs, he and Jared unable to see Misha now struggling to get the rambunctious limb back into the room with him.

      “We gotta get you outside.” Sam said, Misha snorted, “I mean it, you’re gonna trash the place and ruin the Devils Traps.”

Mark hopped back away from the door at hearing that, having forgotten the circle drawn just outside the door and around the edge of the room.

      “How? I can’t even fit out the door!” He grimaced as he felt the wing scrape against the top of the doorframe, shedding several feathers onto the floor. “Ow.”

      “He’s got a point. Unless we get help, we can’t get him out.” Dean turned “Hey! Get down here!”

Mark stepped back to allow Jared and Jensen by, and wasn’t surprised at their shock.

Of course Jared was the one to break the tension, pointing at Misha,

      “Dude you’re a chicken!”

Misha’s curse and spiteful flipping of the bird prompted a laugh from Dean, and after a few moments and some snarky quips from the irritable fledgling angel, Sam and Jared managed to get him in an awkward bear hug, and lift him out the door up the stairs. He was kicking and squirming the whole time, Sam’s face flushing a dark color when Misha made a crude joke about a three way, before they disappeared through the doorway.

Of course soon afterwards they heard a loud ‘crash,’ followed by Bobby cursing loudly, and Mark quickly ran up the steps after them. Jensen moved to follow him, but found Dean pulling the saferoom door shut, cutting off his exit and leaving the two of them alone.

Without thinking, Jensen backed up a few steps, the hunter turning and leaning back against the door, folding his arms over his chest.

      “We need to talk.” His gaze lifted from the floor, locking with Jensen’s. It obvious that was the last thing the hunter wanted to do, and to be honest Jensen didn’t really want to speak to him either.

      “…Okay.” His voice felt strange coming out of his own mouth, and Dean huffed loudly out of his nose. Jensen absently rubbed the back of his head, remembering the loud ‘crack’ of the butt of Dean’s pistol slamming into it.

      “I’m not about to apologize for knockin’ you upside the head.” Dean said irritably, Jensen didn’t look surprised, more annoyed than anything else, and he rolled his eyes. “I know you’re not changelings, or Demons, or… something. But just because you look like me, don’t think for a second that I give a damn about you. If it comes down to it I’m pickin’ my family over you.”

Jensen was unimpressed, and not intimidated.

Dean was a little surprised at that.

      “Okay.” Jensen raised an eyebrow, “We done?”

Dean scowled slightly, pushing the safe room door open, and felt Jensen’s shoulder brush across his chest. Jensen didn’t even throw a glance back at him as he started towards the basement stairs.

That didn’t go over like he thought it would. He’d expected some kind of nervous outburst, maybe Jensen getting angry at him for pistol whipping him the day before. But he got nothing,

      “…Is that it?” Dean asked, Jensen paused in his ascent, spotting Dean as he stepped out of the panic room. “Is that all you’re gonna say?”

      “What do you want?” Jensen asked irritably, “You could give a crap about us, that’s obvious enough. So why would you care about anything I had to say? You pretty much made it clear that it was a one way conversation.”

      “I knock you out cold and that’s all you have to say?”

      “I’m not like you, alright? I’m not pissed off at everything.” The actor motioned with his hands, flustered, it was then that Dean saw the faint shine of a wedding band on his finger, “I’m willing to let that slide because I know what happened with the Changelings. I get why you’re paranoid about seeing someone who looks exactly like you.”

Dean’s eyes, if it was possible, got even more hard and cold towards him.

      “You don’t know _shit_.”

      “No, that’s not what I…” Jensen trailed off, sighing, running a hand over his face, “Look, all I meant was I know what happened. I’m not a hunter, I’ve never killed a Vampire, or exorcised a ghost, or ganked a Demon. But I do know what happened to you, including Hell.”

Dean shifted a little bit, obviously uncomfortable, and he swallowed thickly.

      “Misha said that where we are, what we’re doing here, was in…season five?” he was scowling as he said it, almost as if he felt ridiculous saying it. Jensen nodded,

      “That’s right.”

      “And you guys are on season ten now?”

      “Yeah.” He didn’t want to mention Cas’ betrayal, Crowley’s interference, Sam losing his soul, Purgatory, _the First Blade_ …

      “What… what happens?” Dean asked, “With this Angel bullshit, with Sam and me?”

It was Jensen’s turn to look uncomfortable, the steady gaze he’d held with Dean suddenly disappeared, his eyes averting away.

      “… I’m not sure you want to –”

      “Does one of us say ‘yes’?” Jensen didn’t respond right away, but the silence was all Dean needed, Jensen’s torn expression merely added to his anger. “Which one of us?”

      “Dean, I don’t think it matters now –”

      “ _Which one._ ”

Jensen could practically feel the anger rolling off of Dean, and while their faces were identical he didn’t recognize the hate filled expression on the hunter’s face. Even when he’d been in character he hadn’t seen this… then again it wasn’t like he walked around with a mirror all the time on set.

      “…Sam.” Jensen felt the name slip out of his mouth, by the way Dean’s face contorted further he wished he could take it back. “But he had a reason –”

      “ _Bullshit._ ” The word left Dean’s mouth harshly, it was loud in the stale air of the basement. He bit his lower lip, and when he next spoke it was choked with emotion. A trembling hand ran down over his face, and turned away from Jensen, plodding heavily back into the safe room. “…Bullshit.”

Jensen, not wanting to disturb the hunter further, went upstairs. He honestly didn’t feel like getting shot for pressing the subject.

Upstairs, things were a bit lighter, though Jensen had to right a bookshelf and gather up the books off the floor, snorting at the fact that he was the only one of them to think of cleaning the mess. He followed the sound of Misha’s angry cussing out the front door, only to find Bobby, Sam, and Jared sitting on the porch watching him.

Everyone seemed fairly amazed by the giant wings that had sprouted… except for Misha, who was currently wobbling back and forth, trying to find a way to balance himself with the two new appendages. Bobby and Jared were sipping at beers, Jared sitting a chair beside the old hunter while Sam hovered on the bottom step of the porch, ready to leap forwards and help Misha should he need it.

      “Fuckin’ _damn it_!” Misha nearly tipped over trying to turn around to face them, having no control over the twitching limbs.

Quite suddenly they snapped outwards, stretching far back behind him, the added weight making him stumble backwards.

      “Misha, just sit down!” Sam suggested, then cringed as Misha let out a yelp, tipping backwards and falling flat on his back.

      “ _Ow_!” The ground felt hot beneath him, the sun burning his eyes as they struggled to adjust. He didn’t bother trying to get up, “Fuck it. I’m staying like this.”

      “You can’t just lay there, Mish.” Jared said, Misha scoffed as he used the back of his right hand to wipe sweat off of his forehead.

      “Oh hell yeah I can. Just watch me.”

      “I’m gonna go get him some water…” Sam strode inside the house, disappearing out of sight as Jensen took his place on the bottom step of the porch.

      “…Seriously? You’re gonna get all sunburnt. You should at least sit up.” Jensen’s voice was faint in Misha’s ears, the sound of cicadas and wind making the comment nearly unheard.

      “You just want to watch me flail around some more. No thank you.” His skin already felt like it was burning, and he honestly couldn’t be bothered to lift his hand and shade his eyes from the sun.

Shade came to him instead, and he squinted up at the figure now standing above him, who tipped his head. The wings that were behind Castiel were folded neatly to him, they didn’t twitch or fidget violently like Misha’s. Misha smiled wryly at the other’s puzzlement,

      “Hello.”

      “Hi. You couldn’t teach me how to get these things to behave, could you?”

      “That’s the goal.”

      “Yippee.” The darkened wings flopped pathetically, kicking up dirt and dust, the Angel glanced back and forth along the twenty foot wingspan with a slight crease in his forehead, looking concerned.

      “…Why are you laying in the dirt, Dmitri?”

      “Eh. I dunno. Don’t birds like dust baths?”

      “We are not birds. And we do not need baths.”

      “Right.” A hand was extended, compared to the hot air around them Castiel’s hand felt cool in Misha’s grasp, and with some help he sat up straight.

But, of course, the constantly twitching wings were knocking him off balance, and while Misha managed to pin the left, the right slammed into Castiel. The Angel was knocked backwards, a small noise of surprise leaving his mouth as his back hit the dirt, almost like the wind was knocked out of him.

There was a collective gasp and noises of surprise behind Misha, and he could practically see the others grimacing and mouths dropping open. He froze, cringing as the Angel sat up, Castiel holding a fairly sour expression on his face, swiping dust off of his arms and shoulders before standing, staring down at the man still sitting on the ground.

      “…I forgot that fledglings can be hard to deal with…” Castiel glanced up, watching the men on the porch, including Sam who had returned and stood in the front doorway. “I think it would be prudent to go somewhere more private.”

      “Okay. Uh… sorry about that.”

      “I’m not hurt. I can’t say the same for them should you lose control of your Grace…” He motioned with a hand towards the porch, and in the same motion reached forwards towards Misha. His fingers were cold against his forehead, and after Misha opened his eyes from blinking, he found himself in a dark and cool room.

Light filtered through glassless windows, the stone floor was dusty and cold beneath him, and he turned to glance around the spacious room.

      “…Where are we?”

      “Scotland, Lennox castle. It’s abandoned and relatively quiet.” Castiel sat again, watching Misha released the grip on his new left limb.

      “How the hell am I supposed to deal with this?” His nose wrinkled as he scowled with annoyance, batting them out of his way as they dropped down between him and the Angel of Thursday.

      “Patience. Your situation is unique, never has an Angel been born and developed inside of a human vessel, so your wings aren’t just manifestations of Grace, they are physical as well.”

      “So… your wings are different because they’re not really physical?”

      “Yes.” The Angel shifted, the sound of feathers dragging against stone was heard in the dark room, the wings unfurling slightly and pulling away from Castiel’s back, “How long have you been able to see them?”

      “Since the beginning, when I got here.”

      “…I see.” Castiel’s lips pursed in thought, elbows resting on his knees as he clasped his hands together.

      “Does that mean I can’t hide mine?”

      “I’m not sure yet, perhaps.” Castiel saw Misha grimacing and twitching, trying to flex and stretch the things now attached to his back. The Angel now began to wonder how he was going to teach the man something that he himself had known how to do since birth, manipulating his wings was second nature to him.

Misha’s undignified squawk of surprise echoed in the large empty space as the wings suddenly snapped out behind him again, and he fought to stay sitting upright.

…This was going to be a long day, even by Castiel’s standards.

~*~

He wasn’t prepared for it.

The jury was still out on whether or not he was bad.

Though Mark tried to think that maybe the character he played on the show wasn’t entirely evil, he didn’t know what to make of the real thing. He was a Demon, he’d spent time in Hell, gotten off the rack, threatened to filet babies, and had the balls to go up against the Devil. It was impossible to tell just when he’d started plotting, but he was good at taking life’s lemons and making damn good lemonade… even if it was poisonous.

It’s like he said, Crowley was what happened when you weren’t paying attention.

Which Mark wasn’t.

So it was easy for the git to sneak up on him while he sat outside.

Mark froze where he was when he felt hands resting on his shoulders, keeping him seated on the front step. His head tipped up, looking straight upwards at the man leaning over him, and felt his stomach twist at the familiar face staring back at him.

And the Demon was smirking at him, that couldn’t have been a good sign.

      “You know, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you didn’t like me.” Mark, for lack of anything better to say, simply made a noise in his throat, getting a small raise of an eyebrow from the King of the Crossroads. “…That a yes?”

Mark still was unable to say anything, and it stayed that way until Crowley huffed quietly and shifted, keeping one hand on his shoulder as he sat down beside him.

      “…What do you want?”

      “…Nothing really. Just the Devil and Sleipnir dead…” The King of the Crossroads scowled at the dirt on his shoe, “Also it wouldn’t hurt to have an extra vessel on hand should this one shit the bed.”

      “Sorry. No vacancies.”

      “Oh?”

Mark was gone from his grasp, standing up and away from him, pointing accusingly down at the man in the expensive suit.

      “Get off me, I’m not just some meatbag you can hop in whenever you feel like it -”

      “Yes.” Crowley stood, and with a few steps invaded Mark’s personal space, “You are.”

He frowned deeply as the man’s eyes suddenly flashed a deep red.

      “Occupied.”

Mark felt a hand around his throat, his back slammed up against the porch railing a the King of the Crossroads snarled into his face.

      "He hasn't been here a _day_ and one of you _cockroaches_ already tried to call dibs?!" He shook him, "Get out! Get out of him _now!_ "

The meat was talking, but the demon beneath pulsed and snarled with rage, horns and scarred skin, bone and claws, empty burnt eye sockets and cracked teeth. And the red. The red smoke and bitter remains of what would have been a bright soul -

      "Are you deaf?" Mark was being shaken again, pulling him out of his daze. " _Out!_ "

      "...It's just me." Mark finally managed to swallow, "There's no demon _it's just me._ " He grabbed Crowley by the throat, shoving him back, "I'm turning into the thing I was meant to be if I was born here. I'm turning into _you_."

Crowley, nodding, made a small hum of interest as he straightened his tie.

      "Well isn't that _fascinating..._ But it doesn't change anything. It just means that your meatsuit is as valuable as ever to me." The smile was predatory, "I've half a mind to steal you away right now and keep you safe and sound for later use..."

Mark was quiet, thinking a moment...

...Crowley wanted to try and play him. Make him scared, defensive, trick him and manipulate him.

Two could play at that game.

      "What's to say, now that I'm here, that I shouldn't do the same to you?" The other pair of wide hazel eyes narrowed, but the mouth stayed shut. "It'd be simple. I know what's coming, you don't. I know how to make everything work out in my favor, but you'll just stumble right into it and _fail_. I could scream right now and have Gabriel or Dean come out and take care of you... which would mean the position of King of the Crossroads would be open wouldn't it?"

      "And who would take my place? _You_? A walking sack of puss with delusions of grandeur?"

      "Yes. Me."

      "You wouldn't last a _day_. An _hour_."

      "The fact that you're threatened by this and haven't done anything about it shows just how desperate you are for protection. You're willing to stay here, under the watch of two angels and a Nephilim, as well as three hunters, just to avoid Sleipnir. Is that right?"

      "Safety in numbers and all that." Crowley scowled, "Your poker face would be very good if I didn't know you had a wife and two sons waiting at home. You're a very sound sleeper after turning a demon... by the way, I wouldn't count on sleep in the near future, on account of the dreams you'll be having..." The King of the Crossroads sighed, glancing around the junkyard.

      "Why would I want a wife and children when I could have your life and leave all that behind?"

      "Don't." Crowley scoffed, almost angrily, "Don't put on airs and pretend to not care. I might have a blackened little ball of tar in my chest but it's clear to see you're still human despite smelling of sulfur." He grunted as he stuck his hands into his coat pockets, "What you are right now is a liability."

      "I might not be you but I fucking do a good job at pretending."

      "Please. You've been acting for a relatively small time compared to me, I've been selling Saints, Virigins, and Gods down the river of fire since before your grandfather was even an _idea_. Don't try and bluff and expect me not to see through it."

      "You're getting pretty defensive about who the better actor is for not being threatened by me."

      "You," Crowley jabbed a finger in Mark's face, letting his hand lower, "Have the power and meatsuit of one of the Kings in Hell. You look like me, sound like me, and you think you should be _smiling_? You know where we are, _boy?_ We're in the eleventh hour. Where all Lucifer's little minions and allies are looking for _my head on a fucking platter_ , and you think you can try and intimidate me? You are a faint little speck. You're _nothing_ to me."

The King seemed annoyed now, flustered as Mark gave him a steady and calm stare back into his eyes. He turned, beginning to walk away, up onto the porch.

      "Then I suppose you _don't_ want to know how to beat the devil."

      "Oh I'm sure we'll manage without you."

      "Or Abbadon."

Mark didn't turn but he heard Crowley's pace halt.

      "...Abbadon is _dead_."

      "Abbadon will pop out of a closet in twenty-thirteen due to a spell gone wrong. And I have to say..." Mark looked back up at Crowley with a smirk, "She's not going to be terribly happy with you."

      "Why? To her I'm nothing, just a salesman." Mark shrugged, still holding the same expression on his face as he got his phone out and started to thumb out a text. "Stop that, what're you doing?"

      "I'm telling everyone to keep you in the dark about Abbadon... and let's face it, I know more about her and _you_ than they do." Crowley was reaching out to snatch up the phone, but Mark held it away, "And... sent..."

      "You little _smudge ­_ -"

      "So here's how I see things... For every time you actually move to help us? I give you a little something to give you an edge in the future -"

      " - Or I could tie you down and pull out your tongue -"

      " - _Provided_ that edge doesn't harm the Winchesters or anyone they come in contact with."

Crowley snarled, turning on his heel and storming inside the house, slamming the door behind him. Mark leaned back against the railing, puffing out a sigh.

Wait for it...

It was only a minute or two before the door opened again and the demon walked out, hovering on the porch just behind Mark. He paced a little, annoyed, frustrated, before leaning against the railing and looking into Mark's face.

      "Fine. I want a teaser, I want to know something that makes this worthwhile, because otherwise you're all talk."

      "The reason Abbadon wants to kill you?"

      " _Yes_. _That_. Tell me _that._ "

      "You," Mark looked up at Crowley, amused, "Become the King of Hell."

Crowley just blinked and stared for a moment. Then he was walking down the steps and towards Mark, invading his personal space and speaking in a hushed tone.

      "...That... wasn't something I expected to achieve just yet."

      "Even with plotting to kill Lucifer?"

      "It's on the to do list. Let's make good on this... I keep to my word, you give me information, provided that information doesn't harm Rocky and Bullwinkle."

      "And their contacts, friends, people they've saved."

      "But will still give me an edge?"

Maybe if he gave him the right information, he wouldn't need to use Castiel and turn him against the boys... maybe he could help him find the back door to Purgatory.

      "Yes."

      "And I teach you how to use the special meatsuit you're in."

      "I didn't say -"

      "There is no way I'm letting you wander around defenseless when you're useful to me in more ways than one, Sheppard. So shut your mouth and kiss me."

      "I thought kissing was just to seal deals for soul- _mmf_ \- "

He was pretty sure Crowley slipped him tongue, but it was over just as quickly as it began and he was left standing dumbfounded in front of the porch steps.

      "Soul or not, you just made a deal with a demon." Crowley grinned, "Been a while since I kissed someone that handsome... now... let's show you how to work that meatsuit you're in."

...Nope. Mark still wasn't prepared.


End file.
